“No, but is there anything wrong up there, though?” the farmer asked with eager curiosity, and a fresh smile at the thought that those Banks and city folk were mortal, and could upset, notwithstanding their crashing wheels.  “Brother Tony, you speak out; has anybody been and broke?  Never mind a blow, so long, o’ course, as they haven’t swallowed your money.  How is it?  Why, I never saw such a sight as you.  You come down from London; you play hide and seek about your relation’s house; and here, when you do condescend to step in—­eh? how is it?  You ain’t, I hope, ruined, Tony, are ye?”

Rhoda stood over her uncle to conceal him.

“He shall not speak till he has had some rest.  And yes, mother, he shall have some warm tea upstairs in bed.  Boil some water.  Now, uncle, come with me.”

“Anybody broke?” Anthony rolled the words over, as Rhoda raised his arm.  “I’m asked such a lot, my dear, I ain’t equal to it.  You said here ’d be a quiet place.  I don’t know about money.  Try my pockets.  Yes, mum, if you was forty policemen, I’m empty; you’d find it.  And no objection to nod to prayers; but never was taught one of my own.  Where am I going, my dear?”

“Upstairs with me, uncle.”

Rhoda had succeeded in getting him on his feet.

The farmer tapped at his forehead, as a signification to the others that Anthony had gone wrong in the head, which reminded him that he had prophesied as much.  He stiffened out his legs, and gave a manful spring, crying, “Hulloa, brother Tony! why, man, eh?  Look here.  What, goin’ to bed?  What, you, Tony?  I say—­I say—­dear me!” And during these exclamations intricate visions of tripping by means of gold wires danced before him.

Rhoda hurried Anthony out.

After the door had shut, the farmer said:  “That comes of it; sooner or later, there it is!  You give your heart to money—­you insure in a ship, and as much as say, here’s a ship, and, blow and lighten, I defy you.  Whereas we day-by-day people, if it do blow and if it do lighten, and the waves are avilanches, we’ve nothing to lose.  Poor old Tony—­a smash, to a certainty.  There’s been a smash, and he’s gone under the harrow.  Any o’ you here might ha’ heard me say, things can’t last for ever.  Ha’n’t you, now?”

The persons present meekly acquiesced in his prophetic spirit to this extent.  Mrs. Sumfit dolorously said, “Often, William dear,” and accepted the incontestable truth in deep humiliation of mind.

“Save,” the farmer continued, “save and store, only don’t put your heart in the box.”

“It’s true, William;” Mrs. Sumfit acted clerk to the sermon.

Dahlia took her softly by the neck, and kissed her.

“Is it love for the old woman?” Mrs. Sumfit murmured fondly; and Dahlia kissed her again.

The farmer had by this time rounded to the thought of how he personally might be affected by Anthony’s ill-luck, supposing; perchance, that Anthony was suffering from something more than a sentimental attachment to the Bank of his predilection:  and such a reflection instantly diverted his tendency to moralize.