He is nothing but a farmer,' as if a farmer was quite beneath her notice.
Just then a farmer rode out into the road from the gateway of a field, and Jack pulled up the pony.

The farmer was stout, elderly, and florid; he appeared fairly well-to-do by his dress, but was none too particular to use his razor regularly.

Yet there was a tenderness--almost a pathos--in the simple words he used:--'Georgie, dear, come home ?' 'Yes, papa,' and she kissed his scrubby chin as he bent down from his horse.

He would not go to the station to meet her; but he had been waiting about behind the hedge for an hour to see her come along.

He rode beside the pony cart, but Georgie did not say anything more, or ask after any one else.
As they turned a corner the farmer pointed ahead.