ased his territorial property: nor could he,
throughout the Old Testament, hit on one sentence that looked like a
personal foe to his projects, likely to fit into the mouth of the rector
of Wrexby.

"Well, farmer," he said, with cheerful familiarity, "winter crops looking
well? There's a good show of green in the fields from my windows, as good
as that land of yours will allow in heavy seasons."

To this the farmer replied, "I've not heart or will to be round about,
squire. If you'll listen to me--here, or where you give command."

"Has it anything to do with pen and paper, Fleming? In that case you'd
better be in my study," said the squire.

"I don't know that it have. I don't know that it have." The farmer sought
Robert's face.

"Best where there's no chance of interruption," Robert counselled, and
lifted his hat to the squire.

"Eh? Well, you see I'm busy." The latter affected a particular
indifference, that in such cases, when well acted (as lords of money can
do--squires equally with usurers), may be valued at hundreds of pounds in
the pocket. "Can't you put it off? Come again to-morrow."

"To-morrow's a day too late," said the farmer, gravely. Whereto replying,
"Oh! well, come along in, then," the squire led the way.

"You're two to one, if it's a transaction," he said, nodding to Robert to
close the library door. "Take seats. Now then, what is it? And if I make
a face, just oblige me by thinking nothing about it, for my gout's
beginning to settle in the leg again, and shoots like an electric
telegraph from purgatory."

He wheezed and lowered himself into his arm-chair; but the farmer and
Robert remained standing, and the farmer spoke:--

"My words are going to be few, squire. I've got a fact to bring to your
knowledge, and a question to ask."

Surprise, exaggerated on his face by a pain he had anticipated, made the
squire glare hideously.

"Confound it, that's what they say to a prisoner in the box. Here's a
murder committed:--Are you the guilty person? Fact and question! Well,
out with 'em, both together."

"A father ain't responsible for the sins of his children," said the
farmer.

"Well, that's a fact," the squire emphasized. "I've always maintained it;
but, if you go to your church, farmer--small blame to you if you don't;
that fellow who preaches there--I forget his name--stands out for just
the other way. You are responsible, he swears. Pay your son's debts, and
don't groan over it:--He sp