been brought up in that way that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the best, according to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her fortune; for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey didn’t turn over a new leaf, he might say good-bye to Miss Nancy Lammeter.

It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with his hands in his side pockets and his back to the fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s life at Raveloe. The fading gray light fell dimly on the walls, decorated with guns, whips, and foxes’ brushes; on coats and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes propped up in the chimney-corners—signs of a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond face was in sad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one’s approach, and presently the sound of a heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard across the large empty entrance-hall.

The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the chair in the chimney-corner.

“Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?” said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. “You’re my elders and betters, you know; I was obliged to come when you sent for me.”

“Why, this is what I want—and just shake yourself sober and listen, will you?” said Godfrey savagely. He had himself been drinking more than was good for him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. “I want to tell you I must hand over that rent of Fowler’s to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you; for he’s threatening to distrain for it, and it’ll all be out soon, whether I tell him or not. He said just now, before he went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this week. The Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humour to stand any nonsense; and you know what he threatened if ever he found you making away with his money again. So see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will you?”

“Oh!” said Dunsey sneeringly, coming nearer to his brother and looking in his face. “Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me; it was your brotherly love made you do it, you know.”

Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. “Don’t come near me with that look, else I’ll knock you down.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on his heel, however. “Because I’m such a good-natured brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house and home and cut off with a shilling any day. I might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice young woman Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he couldn’t live with his drunken wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. But, you see, I don’t do it—I’m so easy and good-natured. You’ll take any trouble for me. You’ll get the hundred pounds for me—I know you will.”

“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quivering. “I haven’t a shilling to bless myself with. And it’s a lie that you’d slip into my place; you’d get yourself turned out too, that’s all. For if you begin telling tales, I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favourite; you know that very well. He’d only think himself well rid of you.”

“Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he looked out of the window. “It ’ud be very pleasant to me to go in your company; you’re such a handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond of quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to do without you. But you’d like better for us both to stay at home together; I know you would. So you’ll manage to get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll bid you good-bye, though I’m sorry to part.”