him well—as I shall do now, for that matter. But, as I said before, I make excuses for master, as being in mental distress and bodily ill-health; so I’ve brought myself round not to give warning, as I should ha’ done, for certain, under happier circumstances.”

“Really, Robinson, I think it’s all great nonsense,” said Osborne, weary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which he had not half-attended. “What in the world does it signify whether my father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in the drawing-room, and don’t trouble your head any more about scolding Thomas.”

Robinson went away, offended at his grievance being called nonsense. He kept muttering to himself in the intervals of scolding Thomas, and saying—“Things is a deal changed since poor missis went. I don’t wonder master feels it, for I’m sure I do. She was a lady who had always a becoming respect for a butler’s position, and could have understood how he might be hurt in his mind. She’d never ha’ called his delicacies of feelings nonsense—not she; no more would Mr. Roger. He’s not a merry young gentleman, and over-fond of bringing dirty, slimy creatures into the house; but he’s always a kind word for a man who is hurt in his mind. He’d cheer up the Squire, and keep him from getting so cross and wilful. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do.”

The poor Squire, shut up with his grief, and his ill-temper as well, in the dingy, dreary study where he daily spent more and more of his indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles, till he was as bewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round in a cage. He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating up back-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts. He could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out and weary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last, with a bang.

“I’m getting old,” he said, “and my head’s less clear than it used to be. I think sorrow for her has dazed me. I never was much to boast on; but she thought a deal of me—bless her! She’d never let me call myself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to help me. He’s had money enough spent on his learning; but, instead, he comes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head to think how I’m to pay his debts. I wish I’d told him to earn his living as a dancing-master,” said the Squire, with a sad smile at his own wit. “He’s dressed for all the world like one. And how he’s spent the money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with a heap of creditors at his heels. No, he won’t—not Roger; he may be slow, but he’s steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here! He’s not the eldest son, but he’d take an interest in the estate; and he’d do up these weary accounts for me. I wish Roger was here!”