“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Fred, rising, standing with his back to the fire and beating his boot with his whip.  “I like neither Bulstrode nor speculation.”  He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.

“Well, well, you can do without me, that’s pretty clear,” said old Featherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would show himself at all independent.  “You neither want a bit of land to make a squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred pound by the way.  It’s all one to me.  I can make five codicils if I like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg.  It’s all one to me.”

Fred colored again.  Featherstone had rarely given him presents of money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the immediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect of the land.

“I am not ungrateful, sir.  I never meant to show disregard for any kind intentions you might have towards me.  On the contrary.”

“Very good.  Then prove it.  You bring me a letter from Bulstrode saying he doesn’t believe you’ve been cracking and promising to pay your debts out o’ my land, and then, if there’s any scrape you’ve got into, we’ll see if I can’t back you a bit.  Come now!  That’s a bargain.  Here, give me your arm.  I’ll try and walk round the room.”

Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness enough in him to be a little sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with his dropsical legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking.  While giving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an old fellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waited good-temperedly, first before the window to hear the wonted remarks about the guinea-fowls and the weather-cock, and then before the scanty book-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus, Culpepper, Klopstock’s “Messiah,” and several volumes of the “Gentleman’s Magazine.”

“Read me the names o’ the books.  Come now! you’re a college man.”

Fred gave him the titles.

“What did missy want with more books?  What must you be bringing her more books for?”

“They amuse her, sir.  She is very fond of reading.”

“A little too fond,” said Mr. Featherstone, captiously.  “She was for reading when she sat with me.  But I put a stop to that.  She’s got the newspaper to read out loud.  That’s enough for one day, I should think.  I can’t abide to see her reading to herself.  You mind and not bring her any more books, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir, I hear.”  Fred had received this order before, and had secretly disobeyed it.  He intended to disobey it again.

“Ring the bell,” said Mr. Featherstone; “I want missy to come down.”