Blackthorn was lying on the grass with his feet kicking in the air,
and shewing the skin through his torn shoes. The two lads squatted
down on the grass with their heads together. Who could tell what
mischief that runaway might be putting into Harold's head, and all
because Alfred could not bear with him enough for him to be happy at
home?

They were so much engrossed, that it needed a rough call from the
farmer to send Paul back to his work when the dinner-hour was over;
whereupon Harold came slowly to his digging again.

Hotter and hotter did it grow, and the grey dull clouds began to gain
a yellow lurid light in the distance; there were low growlings of
thunder far away, and Ellen left her work unfinished, and forgot how
hot she was herself in toiling to fan Alfred, so as to keep him in
some little degree cooler, while the more he strove with the heat,
the more oppressed and miserable he grew.

Poor fellow! his wretchedness was not so much the heat, as the dim
perception of Mr. Blunt's hasty words; he had not heard them fully--
he dared not inquire what they had been, and he could not endure to
face them--yet the echo of 'nothing will ever do him good,' seemed to
ring like a knell in his ears every time he turned his weary head.
Nothing do him good! Nothing! Always these four walls, that little
bed, this wasting weary lassitude, this gnawing, throbbing pain, no
pony, no running, no shouting, no sense of vigour and health ever
again, and perhaps--that terrible perhaps, which made Alfred's very
flesh quail, he would not think of; and to drive it away, he found
some fresh toil to require of the sister who could not content him,
toil as she would.