of ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the
near-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood
rebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he
got from the farm-bailiff.

Nor were sneers the sharpest punishment his misdemeanours earned. The
farm-bailiff's stick was thick and his arm was strong, and he had a
tendency to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, the more he
had of it the better it would be for him.

And John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at the time, would steal
away afterwards and sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the
sympathising sheep dog.

Unfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as
a remedy for his woes. The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's
entreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The
little ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached
patience.

"Cocky has been tamed," said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, "perhaps John
Broom will get steadier by-and-by."

"It seems a pity we can't chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty," laughed the
parson; "he would be safe then, at any rate."

Miss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the
parson should have made this particular joke on this particular
night--the night when John Broom did not come home.