which made the bond between these two brothers so rarely perfect. It was only the thought of Cynthia that threw Roger off his balance. A strong man in everything else, about her he was as a child. He knew that he could not marry and retain his Fellowship; his intention was to hold himself loose from any employment or profession, until he had found one to his mind; so there was no immediate prospect—no prospect for many years, indeed—that he would be able to marry. Yet he went on seeking Cynthia’s sweet company, listening to the music of her voice, basking in her sunshine, and feeding his passion in every possible way, just like an unreasoning child. He knew that it was folly—and yet he did it; and it was perhaps this that made him so sympathetic with Osborne. Roger racked his brains about Osborne’s affairs much more frequently than Osborne troubled himself. Indeed, he had become so ailing and languid of late, that even the Squire made only very faint objections to his desire for frequent change of scene, though formerly he used to grumble so much at the necessary expenditure it involved.

“After all, it doesn’t cost much,” the Squire said to Roger one day. “Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask me for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have lost each other’s language, that’s what we have! and my dictionary” (only he called it “dixonary”) “has all got wrong because of those confounded debts—which he will never explain to me, or talk about—he always holds me off at arm’s length when I begin upon it— he does, Roger—me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of all, when he was a little bit of a chap!”

The Squire dwelt so much upon Osborne’s reserved behaviour to himself that, brooding over this one subject perpetually, he became more morose and gloomy than ever in his manner to his son, resenting the want of the confidence and affection that he thus repelled. So much so that Roger, who desired to avoid being made the receptacle of his father’s complaints against Osborne—and Roger’s passive listening was the sedative his father always sought —had often to have recourse to the discussion of the drainage works as a counter-irritant. The Squire had felt Mr. Preston’s speech about the dismissal of his work-people very keenly; it fell in with the reproaches of his own conscience, though, as he would repeat to Roger over and over again— “I couldn’t help it—how could I?—I was drained dry of ready money—I wish the land was drained as dry as I am!” said he, with a touch of humour that came out before he was aware, and at which he smiled sadly enough. “What was I to do, I ask you, Roger? I know I was in a rage—I’ve had a deal to make me so—and maybe I didn’t think as much about consequences as I should have done, when I gave orders for ’em to be sent off; but I couldn’t have done otherwise, if I’d ha’ thought for a twelvemonth in cool blood. Consequences! I hate consequences; they’ve always been against me; they have! I’m so tied up, I can’t cut down a stick more—and that’s a ‘consequence’ of having the property so deucedly well settled; I wish I’d never had any ancestors! Ay, laugh, lad! it does me good to see thee laugh a bit, after Osborne’s long face, which always grows longer at sight o’ me.”

“Look here, father!” said Roger suddenly, “I’ll manage somehow about the money for the works. You trust to me; give me two months to turn myself in, and you shall have some money, at any rate, to begin with.”

The Squire looked at him, and his face brightened as a child’s does at the promise of a pleasure, made to him by some one on whom he can rely. He became a little graver, however, as he said—“But how will you get it? It’s hard enough work.”

“Never mind; I’ll get it—a hundred or so at first—I don’t yet know how—but remember, father, I’m a senior wrangler, and a ‘very promising young writer,’ as that review called me. Oh, you don’t know what a fine fellow you’ve got for a son! You should have read that review to know all my wonderful merits.”

“I did, Roger. I heard Gibson speaking of it, and I made him get it for me. I should have understood it better, if they could have called the animals by their English names, and not put so much of their French jingo into it.”

“But it was an answer to an article by a French writer,” pleaded Roger.