“What was it you wanted about those coverts, papa?” she asked presently, with a quick decision.

“What the deuce does it matter?  If you want to know, I proposed to him to exchange my coverts over by the Scrubs, which work in with his shooting, for the wood down by the Home Farm.  It was an exchange made year after year in my father’s time.  When I spoke to the keeper, I found it had been allowed to lapse.  Your uncle let the shooting go to rack and ruin after Harold’s death.  It gave me something to write about, and I was determined to know where I stood—­Well! the old Pharisee can go his way:  I’ll go mine.”

And with a spasmodic attempt to play the squire of Mellor on his native heath, Richard Boyce rose, drew his emaciated frame to its full height, and stood looking out drearily to his ancestral lawns—­a picturesque and elegant figure, for all its weakness and pitiableness.

“I shall ask Mr. Aldous Raeburn about it, if I see him in the village to-day,” said Marcella, quietly.

Her father started, and looked at her with some attention.

“What have you seen of Aldous Raeburn?” he inquired.  “I remember hearing that you had come across him.”

“Certainly I have come across him.  I have met him once or twice at the Vicarage—­and—­oh! on one or two other occasions,” said Marcella, carelessly.  “He has always made himself agreeable.  Mr. Harden says his grandfather is devoted to him, and will hardly ever let him go away from home.  He does a great deal for Lord Maxwell now:  writes for him, and helps to manage the estate; and next year, when the Tories come back and Lord Maxwell is in office again—­”

“Why, of course, there’ll be plums for the grandson,” said Mr. Boyce with a sneer.  “That goes without saying—­though we are such a virtuous lot.”

“Oh yes, he’ll get on—­everybody says so.  And he’ll deserve it too!” she added, her eye kindling combatively as she surveyed her father.  “He takes a lot of trouble down here, about the cottages and the board of guardians and the farms.  The Hardens like him very much, but he is not exactly popular, according to them.  His manners are sometimes shy and awkward, and the poor people think he’s proud.”

“Ah! a prig I dare say—­like some of his uncles before him,” said Mr. Boyce, irritably.  “But he was civil to you, you say?”

And again he turned a quick considering eye on his daughter.

“Oh dear! yes,” said Marcella, with a little proud smile.  There was a pause; then she spoke again.  “I must go off to the church; the Hardens have hard work just now with the harvest festival, and I promised to take them some flowers.”

“Well”—­said her father, grudgingly, “so long as you don’t promise anything on my account!  I tell you, I haven’t got sixpence to spend on subscriptions to anything or anybody.  By the way, if you see Reynolds anywhere about the drive, you can send him to me.  He and I are going round the Home Farm to pick up a few birds if we can, and see what the coverts look like.  The stock has all run down, and the place has been poached to death.  But he thinks if we take on an extra man in the spring, and spend a little on rearing, we shall do pretty decently next year.”