I looked at Edward.  He did not move from where he was sitting, and yet I saw that to resist his father cost him no light struggle.

“Edward.”  There was nothing imperative—­nothing stern—­nothing commanding in the father’s voice; but its great, its almost irresistible power, lay in its expression of the father’s belief that his son would instantly leave the place.  And it was this power that prevailed.  Edward arose, and, with eyes cast upon the floor, was moving away from his companions, when Frank Slade exclaimed: 

“Poor, weak fool!”

It was a lightning flash of indignation, rather than a mere glance from the human eye, that Mr. Hargrove threw instantly upon Frank; while his fine form sprung up erect.  He did not speak, but merely transfixed him with a look.  Frank curled his lip impotently, as he tried to return the old man’s withering glances.

“Now look here!” said Simon Slade, in some wrath, “there’s been just about enough of this.  I’m getting tired of it.  Why don’t you keep Ned at home?  Nobody wants him here.”

“Refuse to sell him liquor,” returned Mr. Hargrove.

“It’s my trade to sell liquor,” answered Slade, boldly.

“I wish you had a more honorable calling,” said Hargrove, almost mournfully.

“If you insult my father, I’ll strike you down!” exclaimed Frank Slade, starting up and assuming a threatening aspect.

“I respect filial devotion, meet it where I will,” calmly replied Mr. Hargrove,—­“I only wish it had a better foundation in this case.  I only wish the father had merited——­”

I will not stain my page with the fearful oath that Frank Slade yelled, rather than uttered, as, with clenched fist, he sprung toward Mr. Hargrove.  But ere he had reached the unruffled old man —­who stood looking at him as one would look into the eyes of a wild beast, confident that he could not stand the gaze—­a firm hand grasped his arm, and a rough voice said: 

“Avast, there, young man!  Touch a hair of that white head, and I’ll wring your neck off.”

“Lyon!” As Frank uttered the man’s name, he raised his fist to strike him.  A moment the clenched hand remained poised in the air; then it fell slowly to his side, and he contented himself with an oath and a vile epithet.

“You can swear to your heart’s content.  It will do nobody any harm but yourself,” coolly replied Mr. Lyon, whom I now recognized as the person with whom I had held several conversations during previous visits.

“Thank you, Mr. Lyon,” said Mr. Hargrove, “for this manly interference.  It is no more than I should have expected from you.”

“I never suffer a young man to strike an old man,” said Lyon firmly.  “Apart from that, Mr. Hargrove, there are other reasons why your person must be free from violence where I am.”

“This is a bad place for you, Lyon,” said Mr. Hargrove; “and I’ve said so to you a good many times.”  He spoke in rattier an undertone.  “Why will you come here?”