his hands in his pockets, and his mouth often contracting itself into the traditional sin of a whistle, but as often checked into sudden gravity—­ending, nine times out of ten, in a yawn.  He looked askance at Osborne, who was sitting near the fire absorbed in a book.  The poor squire was something like the little boy in the child’s story, who asks all sorts of birds and beasts to come and play with him; and, in every case, receives the sober answer, that they are too busy to have leisure for trivial amusements.  The father wanted the son to put down his book, and talk to him:  it was so wet, so dull, and a little conversation would so wile away the time!  But Osborne, with his back to the window where his father was standing, saw nothing of all this, and went on reading.  He had assented to his father’s remark that it was a very wet afternoon, but had not carried on the subject into all the varieties of truisms of which it was susceptible.  Something more rousing must be started, and this the squire felt.  The recollection of the affair between Roger and Cynthia came into his head, and, without giving it a moment’s consideration, he began,—­

‘Osborne!  Do you know anything about this—­this attachment of Roger’s?’

Quite successful.  Osborne laid down his book in a moment, and turned round to his father.

’Roger! an attachment!  No!  I never heard of it—­I can hardly believe it—­that is to say, I suppose it is to—–­’

And then he stopped; for he thought he had no right to betray his own conjecture that the object was Cynthia Kirkpatrick.

’Yes.  He is though.  Can you guess who to?  Nobody that I particularly like—­not a connection to my mind—­yet she’s a very pretty girl; and I suppose I was to blame in the first instance.’

‘Is it—­’

’It’s no use beating about the bush.  I’ve gone so far, I may as well tell you all.  It’s Miss Kirkpatrick, Gibson’s stepdaughter.  But it’s not an engagement, mind you—­’

‘I’m very glad—­I hope she likes Roger back again—­’

’Like—­it’s only too good a connection for her not to like it:  if Roger is of the same mind when he comes home, I’ll be bound she’ll be only too happy!’

‘I wonder Roger never told me,’ said Osborne, a little hurt, now he began to consider himself.

‘He never told me either,’ said the squire.  ’It was Gibson, who came here, and made a clean breast of it like a man of honour.  I’d been saying to him, I could not have either of you two lads taking up with his lasses.  I’ll own it was you I was afraid of—­it’s bad enough with Roger, and maybe will come to nothing after all; but if it had been you, I’d ha’ broken with Gibson and every mother’s son of ’em, sooner than have let it go on; and so I told Gibson.’

’I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but, once for all, I claim the right of choosing my wife for myself, subject to no man’s interference,’ said Osborne, hotly.