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“I hope I am not ungrateful,” thought Edward to himself, as he was trudging London-ward after taking a tender leave of all at the mill; “I hope I am not ungrateful. I do not think I am, for I would give my right arm, ay, or my life, if it would serve master John Stokes or please dear Cissy. But really I do hope never to come within hearing of Aunt Deborah again, she storms so. I wonder whether all old women are so cross. I don’t think my mother will be, nor Cissy. I am sure Cissy won’t Poor Aunt Deborah! I suppose she can’t help it.” And with this indulgent conclusion, Edward wended on his way.

Aunt Deborah’s mood was by no means so pacific. She staid at home fretting, fuming, and chafing, and storming herself hoarse–which, as the people at the mill took care to keep out of earshot, was all so much good scolding thrown away. The state of things since Edward’s departure had been so decisive, that even John Stokes thought it wiser to keep himself aloof for a time; and although they pretty well guessed that she would take measures to put in effect her threat of disinheritance, the first outward demonstration came in the shape of a young man (gentleman I suppose he called himself–ay, there is no doubt but he wrote himself Esquire) who attended her to church a few Sundays after, and was admitted to the honour of sitting in the same pew.

Nothing could be more unlike our friend Edward than the stranger. Fair, freckled, light-haired, light-eyed, with invisible eye-brows and eye-lashes, insignificant in feature, pert and perking in expression, and in figure so dwarfed and stunted, that though in point of age he had evidently attained his full growth, (if one may use the expression to such a he-doll,) Robert at fifteen would have made two of him,–such was the new favourite. So far as appearance went, for certain Mrs. Deborah had not changed for the better.

Gradually it oozed out, as, somehow or other, news, like water, will find a vent, however small the cranny,–by slow degrees it came to be understood that Mrs. Deborah’s visiter was a certain Mr. Adolphus Lynfield, clerk to an attorney of no great note in the good town of Belford Regis, and nearly related, as he affirmed, to the Thornby family.

Upon hearing these tidings, John Stokes, the son of old Simon Thornly’s sister, marched across the road, and finding the door upon the latch, entered unannounced into the presence of his enemy.

“I think it my duty to let you know, cousin Deborah, that this here chap’s an impostor–a sham–and that you are a fool,” was his conciliatory opening. “Search the register. The Thornlys have been yeomen of this parish ever since the time of Elizabeth–more shame to you for forcing the last of the race to seek his bread elsewhere; and if you can find such a name as Lynfield amongst ’em, I’ll give you leave to turn me into a pettifogging lawyer–that’s all. Saunderses, and Symondses, and Stokeses, and Mays, you’ll find in plenty, but never a Lynfield. Lynfield, quotha! it sounds like a made-up name in a story-book! And as for ‘Dolphus, why there never was anything like it in all the generation, except my good old great aunt Dolly, and that stood for Dorothy. All our names have been christian-like and English, Toms, and Jacks, and Jems, and Bills, and Sims, and Neds–poor fellow! None of your outlandish ‘Dolphuses. Dang it, I believe the foolish woman likes the chap the better for having a name she can’t speak! Remember, I warn you he’s a sham!” And off strode the honest miller, leaving Mrs. Deborah too angry for reply, and confirmed both in her prejudice and prepossession by the natural effect of that spirit of contradiction which formed so large an ingredient in her composition, and was not wholly wanting in that of John Stokes.