ke so bold as to speak," continued old Leonard,
"nothing but true religion, and the love of Christ, and the power of
God's Spirit in the heart, will ever make us heartily forgive our
enemies, and not only forgive them, but render to them good for evil."

When Leonard Dobbin arrived James Courtenay had been sent for, and had
been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor
crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in
the world, if they were his, to restore poor Jacob to life, or never to
have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be
undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in
the silent grave.

"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time
moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow I
have ever had in life. I would give L10,000 hard money, down on that
table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose.
But what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when I've thought upon
this matter I'll see you again."

"Meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "I was hasty in
saying a little while ago that I'd turn you out of your farm next
Michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning
you out, I'll give you a lease of it. I hope you won't talk more than
can be helped about this terrible business. Now go."

The two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they
left the grounds of the great house; and old Leonard could not help
wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to Meyers,
"Ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of God
before his eyes. I'd rather be the father of poor Jacob in his grave,
than of the young squire up yonder at the Hall."

* * * * *

Bitter indeed were Squire Courtenay's feelings and reflections when the
two old men had left, and, his son having been ordered off to his
chamber, he found himself once more alone. The dusk of the evening came
on, but the squire did not seem to care for food, and, in truth, his
melancholy thoughts had taken all appetite away. At last he went to the
window, which looked out over a fine park and a long reach of valuable
property, and he began to think: What good will all these farms do this
boy, if the tenants upon them only hate him, and curse him? Perhaps,
with all this property, he may come to