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do to me. There is only this difference: most of
    the manufacturers seem paralyzed when they are attacked. Sykes, for instance, when his dressing-shop
    was set on fire and burned to the ground, when the cloth was torn from his tenters and left in shreds in the field, took no steps to discover or punish the miscreants: he gave up as tamely as a rabbit under
    the jaws of a ferret. Now I, if I know myself, should stand by my trade, my mill, and my machinery."
    "Helstone says these three are your gods; that the 'Orders in Council' are with you another name for the seven deadly sins; that Castlereagh is your Antichrist, and the war-party his legions."
    "Yes; I abhor all these things because they ruin me. They stand in my way. I cannot get on. I cannot execute my plans because of them. I see myself baffled at every turn by their untoward effects."
    "But you are rich and thriving, Moore?"
    "I am very rich in cloth I cannot sell. You should step into my warehouse yonder, and observe how
    it is piled to the roof with pieces. Roakes and Pearson are in the same condition. America used to be
    their market, but the Orders in Council have cut that off."
    Malone did not seem prepared to carry on briskly a conversation of this sort. He began to knock
    the heels of his boots together, and to yawn.
    "And then to think," continued Mr. Moore who seemed too much taken up with the current of his
    own thoughts to note the symptoms of his guest's ennui —"to think that these ridiculous gossips of Whinbury and Briarfield will keep pestering one about being married! As if there was nothing to be
    done in life but to 'pay attention,' as they say, to some young lady, and then to go to church with her, and then to start on a bridal tour, and then to run through a round of visits, and then, I suppose, to be
    'having a family.' Oh, que le diable emporte!" He broke off the aspiration into which he was launching with a certain energy, and added, more calmly, "I believe women talk and think only of these things, and they naturally fancy men's minds similarly occupied."
    "Of course—of course," assented Malone; "but never mind them." And he whistled, looked impatiently round, and seemed to feel a great want of something. This time Moore caught and, it appeared, comprehended his demonstrations.
    "Mr. Malone," said he, "you must require refreshment after your wet walk. I forget hospitality."
    "Not at all," rejoined Malone; but he looked as if the right nail was at last hit on the head, nevertheless. Moore rose and opened a cupboard.
    "It is my fancy," said he, "to have every convenience within myself, and not to be dependent on the feminity in the cottage yonder for every mouthful I eat or every drop I drink. I often spend the evening and sup here alone, and sleep with Joe Scott in the mill. Sometimes I am my own watchman. I
    require little sleep, and it pleases me on a fine night to wander for an hour or two with my musket
    about the hollow. Mr. Malone, can you cook a mutton chop?"
    "Try me. I've done it hundreds of times at college."
    "There's a dishful, then, and there's the gridiron. Turn them quickly. You know the secret of keeping the juices in?"
    "Never fear me; you shall see. Hand a knife and fork, please."
    The curate turned up his coat-cuffs, and applied himself to the cookery with vigour. The
    manufacturer placed on the table plates, a loaf of bread, a black bottle, and two tumblers. He then produced a small copper kettle—still from the same well-stored recess, his cupboard—filled it with
    water from a large stone jar in a corner, set it on the fire beside the hissing gridiron, got lemons, sugar, and a small china punch-bowl; but while he was brewing the punch a tap at the door called him
    away.
    "Is it you, Sarah?"
    "Yes, sir. Will you come to supper, please, sir?"
    "No; I shall not be in to-night; I shall sleep in the mill. So lock the doors, and tell your mistress to go to bed."
    He returned.
    "You have your household in proper order,"