‘Why shouldn’t my father speak to Thomas?’ said Osborne.  ’But, perhaps, he spoke angrily, I daresay; for I’m sure he’s not well.’

’No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn’t that.  I myself am given to anger; and I’m blessed with as good health as any man in my years.  Besides, anger’s a good thing for Thomas.  He needs a deal of it.  But it should come from the right quarter—­and that is me myself, Mr. Osborne.  I know my place, and I know my rights and duties as well as any butler that lives.  And it’s my duty to scold Thomas, and not master’s.  Master ought to have said, “Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about letting out the fire,” and I’d ha’ given it him well,—­as I shall do now, for that matter.  But as I said before, I make excuses for master, as being in mental distress and bodily ill-health; so I’ve brought myself round not to give warning, as I should ha’ done, for certain, under happier circumstances.’

‘Really, Robinson, I think it’s all great nonsense,’ said Osborne, weary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which he had not half attended.  ’What in the world does it signify whether my father speaks to you or to Thomas?  Bring me coffee in the drawing-room, and don’t trouble your head any more about scolding Thomas.’

Robinson went away offended at his grievance being called nonsense.  He kept muttering to himself in the intervals of scolding Thomas, and saying,—­’Things is a deal changed since poor missis went.  I don’t wonder master feels it, for I’m sure I do.  She was a lady who had always a becoming respect for a butler’s position, and could have understood how he might be hurt in his mind.  She’d never ha’ called his delicacies of feelings nonsense—­not she; no more would Mr. Roger.  He’s a merry young gentleman, and over-fond of bringing dirty, slimy creatures into the house; but he’s always a kind word for a man who is hurt in his mind.  He’d cheer up the squire, and keep him from getting so cross and wilful.  I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do.’

The poor squire, shut up with his grief and his ill-temper as well, in the dingy, dreary study in which he daily spent more and more of his indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles till he was as bewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round in a cage.  He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating up back-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts.  He could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out and weary, angry and disappointed.  He closed his books at last with a bang.

‘I’m getting old,’ he said, ’and my head’s less clear than it used to be.  I think sorrow for her has dazed me.  I never was much to boast on; but she thought a deal of me—­bless her!  She’d never let me call myself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid.  Osborne ought to help me.  He’s had money enough spent on his learning; but instead, he comes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head to think