owed his head to a London hairdresser. He was
quite content to have a practitioner out from Alresford, and to pay
him one shilling, including the journey. His tenants in these bad
times had always paid their rents, but they had done so because
their rents had not been raised since the squire had come to the
throne. Mr Hall knew well that if he was anxious to save himself from
headaches in that line, he had better let his lands on easy terms. He
was very hospitable, but he never gave turtle from London, or fish
from Southampton, or strawberries or peas on the first of April. He
could give a dinner without champagne, and thought forty shillings
a dozen price enough for port or sherry, or even claret. He kept a
carriage for his four daughters, and did not tell all the world that
the horses spent a fair proportion of their time at the plough. The
four daughters had two saddle-horses between them, and the father had
another for his own use. He did not hunt,--and living in that part
of Hampshire, I think he was right. He did shoot after the manner
of our forefathers;--would go out, for instance, with Mr Blake, and
perhaps Mr Whittlestaff, and would bring home three pheasants, four
partridges, a hare, and any quantity of rabbits that the cook might
have ordered. He was a man determined on no account to live beyond
his means; and was not very anxious to seem to be rich. He was a man
of no strong affections, or peculiarly generous feelings. Those who
knew him, and did not like him, said that he was selfish. They who
were partial to him declared that he never owed a shilling that he
could not pay, and that his daughters were very happy in having such
a father. He was a good-looking man, with well-formed features, but
one whom you had to see often before you could remember him. And as
I have said before, he "never had a headache in his life." "When
your father wasn't doing quite so well with the bank as his friends
wished, he asked me to do something for him. Well; I didn't see my
way."

"I was a boy then, and I heard nothing of my father's business."

"I dare say not; but I cannot help telling you. He thought I
was unkind. I thought that he would go on from one trouble to
another;--and he did. He quarrelled with me, and for years we
never spoke. Indeed I never saw him again. But for the sake of old
friendship, I am very glad to meet you." This he said, as he was
walking across the hall to the drawing-room.

There Gordon met t