“I should think not, indeed,” said the squire pompously.  “Your position as the son of a poor farmer wouldn’t be quite so high as it is now.”

As he spoke he glanced complacently at the handsome furniture which surrounded him, the choice engravings which hung on the walls, and the full-length mirror in which his figure was reflected.  “Ten years from now Frank Frost will be only a common laborer on his father’s farm—­that is,” he added significantly, “if his father manages to keep it; while you, I hope, will be winning distinction at the bar.”

Father and son were in a congenial mood that evening, and a common hatred drew them more closely together than mutual affection had ever done.  They were very much alike—­both cold, calculating, and selfish.  The squire was indeed ambitious for his son, but could hardly be said to love him, since he was incapable of feeling a hearty love for any one except himself.

As for John, it is to be feared that he regarded his father chiefly as one from whom he might expect future favors.  His mother had been a good, though not a strong-minded woman, and her influence might have been of advantage to her son; but unhappily she had died when John was in his tenth year, and since then he had become too much like his father.

CHAPTER III.  FRANK AT HOME

Mr. Frost’s farm was situated about three-quarters of a mile from the village.  It comprised fifty acres, of which twenty were suitable for tillage, the remainder being about equally divided between woodland and pasture.

Mr. Frost had for some years before his marriage been a painter, and had managed to save up from his earnings not far from a thousand dollars.  Thinking, however, that farming would be more favorable to health, he purchased his fifty-acre farm for twenty-eight hundred dollars, payable one thousand down, and the rest remaining on mortgage.  At the date of our story he had succeeded in paying up the entire amount within eight hundred dollars, a mortgage for that amount being held by Squire Haynes.  He had not been able to accomplish this without strict economy, in which his wife had cheerfully aided him.

But his family had grown larger and more expensive.  Besides Frank, who was the oldest, there were now three younger children—­Alice, twelve years of age; Maggie, ten; and Charlie, seven.

The farmhouse was small but comfortable, and the family had never been tempted to sigh for a more costly or luxurious home.  They were happy and contented, and this made their home attractive.

On the evening succeeding that of the war meeting, Frank was seated in the common sitting-room with his father and mother.  There was a well-worn carpet on the floor, a few plain chairs were scattered about the room, and in the corner ticked one of the old-fashioned clocks such as used to be the pride of our New England households.  In the center of the room stood a round table, on which had been set a large kerosene-lamp, which diffused a cheerful light about the apartment.