ng gentleman; but the attack
on Mr. Dalton was gross, very gross, and I had no choice but to offer
him my columns to reply. Party has its duties, sir," added the scribe,
kindling, as one who should propose a sentiment; "and the attack was
gross."

Richard stood for half a minute digesting the answer; and then the god
of fair play came uppermost in his heart, and, murmuring "Good morning,"
he made his escape into the street.

His horse was not hurried on the way home, and he was late for
breakfast. The Squire was standing with his back to the fire in a state
bordering on apoplexy, his fingers violently knitted under his
coat-tails. As Richard came in, he opened and shut his mouth like a
cod-fish, and his eyes protruded.

"Have you seen that, sir?" he cried, nodding towards the paper.

"Yes, sir," said Richard.

"Oh, you've read it, have you?"

"Yes; I have read it," replied Richard, looking at his foot.

"Well," demanded the old gentleman, "and what have you to say to it,
sir?"

"You seem to have been misinformed," said Dick.

"Well? What then? Is your mind so sterile, sir? Have you not a word of
comment? no proposal?"

"I fear, sir, you must apologise to Mr. Dalton. It would be more
handsome, indeed it would be only just, and a free acknowledgment would
go far--" Richard paused, no language appearing delicate enough to suit
the case.

"That is a suggestion which should have come from me, sir," roared the
father. "It is out of place upon your lips. It is not the thought of a
loyal son. Why, sir, if my father had been plunged in such deplorable
circumstances, I should have thrashed the editor of that vile sheet
within an inch of his life. I should have thrashed the man, sir. It
would have been the action of an ass; but it would have shown that I had
the blood and the natural affections of a man. Son? You are no son, no
son of mine, sir!"

"Sir!" said Dick.

"I'll tell you what you are, sir," pursued the Squire. "You're a
Benthamite. I disown you. Your mother would have died for shame;
there was no modern cant about your mother; she thought--she said to me,
sir--I'm glad she's in her grave, Dick Naseby. Misinformed! Misinformed,
sir? Have you no loyalty, no spring, no natural affections? Are you
clockwork, hey? Away! This is no place for you. Away!" (Waving his hands
in the air.) "Go away! Leave me!"

At this moment Dick beat a retreat in a disarray of nerves, a whistling
and clamour of his own arteries