an engrossing subject, it was, perhaps, no wonder that he unconsciously neglected his father; but it was none the less sad at the time, and to be regretted in its consequences.

“I may come in and have a pipe with you, sir, mayn’t I?” said Roger, that first evening, pushing gently against the study-door, which his father held only half open.

“You’ll not like it,” said the Squire, still holding the door against him, but speaking in a relenting tone. “The tobacco I use isn’t what young men like. Better go and have a cigar with Osborne.”

“No. I want to sit with you, and I can stand pretty strong tobacco.”

Roger pushed in, the resistance slowly giving way before him.

“It will make your clothes smell. You’ll have to borrow Osborne’s scents to sweeten yourself,” said the Squire grimly, at the same time pushing a short smart amber-mouthed pipe to his son.

“No; I’ll have a churchwarden. Why, father, do you think I’m a baby to put up with a doll’s head like this?” looking at the carving upon it.

The Squire was pleased in his heart, though he did not choose to show it. He only said, “Osborne brought it me when he came back from Germany. That’s three years ago.” And then for some time they smoked in silence. But the voluntary companionship of his son was very soothing to the Squire, though not a word might he said.

The next speech he made showed the direction of his thoughts; indeed, his words were always a transparent medium through which the current might be seen.

“A deal of a man’s life comes and goes in three years— I’ve found that out;” and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was turning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the Squire again stopped his smoking and spoke.

“I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of Wales being made Regent, I read somewhere—I daresay it was in a newspaper—that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad terms. Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding with me on White Surrey;—you won’t remember the pony we called White Surrey?”

“I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days.”

“Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know. I’d seven horses in the stable then—not counting the farm-horses. I don’t recollect having a care then, except—she was always delicate, you know. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in black velvet —it was a foppery, but it wasn’t my doing, and it was all right, I’m sure. He’s a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has gone out of his face.”

“He’s a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has given you,” said Roger, rather taking his brother’s feelings for granted.

“Not he,” said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and hitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces. “There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He’s none troubled about the money. It’s easy getting money from Jews, if you’re the eldest son and the heir. They just ask, ‘How old is your father, and has he had a stroke, or a fit?’ and it’s settled out of hand; and then they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber and land—Don’t let us speak of him; it’s no good, Roger. He and I are out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could put us to rights. It’s thinking of how he grieved her at last that makes me so bitter with him. And yet there’s a deal of good in him! and he’s so quick and clever, if only he’d give his mind to things. Now, you were always slow, Roger—all your masters used to say so.”