"He didn't tell you?"

"No, sir."

"Where is he?"

"Gone to London with your bounty."

"Now, Simon Armour," began the baronet with some truculence.

"Now, sir Wilton Lestrange!" interrupted Simon.

"What's the matter?"

"Please to remember you are in my house!"

"Tut, tut! All I want to say is that you will spoil everything if you encourage the rascal to keep low company!"

"You mean?"

"Those Mansons."

"Are your children low company, sir?"

"Yes; I am sorry, but I must admit it. Their mother was low company."

"She was in it at least, when she was in yours!" had all but escaped Simon's lips, but he caught the bird by the tail.--

"The children are not the mother!" he said. "I know the girl, and she is anything but low company. She lay ill in my house here for six weeks or more. Ask Miss Wylder.--If you want to be on good terms with your son, don't say a word, sir, against your daughter or her brother."

"I like that! On good terms with my son! Ha, ha!"

"Remember, sir, he is independent of his father."

"Independent! A beggarly bookbinder!"

"Excuse me, sir, but an honest trade is the only independence! You are dependent on your money and your land. Where would you be without them?

And you made neither! They're yours only in a way! We, my grandson and I, have means of our own," said the blacksmith, and held out his two brawny hands. "--The thing that is beggarly," he resumed, "is to take all and give nothing. If your ancestors got the land by any good they did, you did not get it by any good you did; and having got it, what have you done in return?"

"By Jove! I didn't know you were such a radical!" returned the baronet, laughing.

"It is such as you, sir, that make what you call radicals. If the landlords had used what was given them to good ends, there would be no radicals--or not many--in the country! The landlords that look to their land and those that are on it, earn their bread as hardly as the man that ploughs it. But when you call it yours, and do nothing for it, I am radical enough to think no wrong would be done if you were deprived of it!"

"What! are you taking to the highway at your age?"

"No, sir; I have a trade I like better, and have no call to lighten you of anything, however ill you may use it. But there are those that think they have a right _and_ a call to take the land from landlords like you, and I would no more leave my work to prevent them than I would to help them."

"Well, well! I didn't come to talk politics; I came to ask a favour of you."

"What I can do for you, sir, I shall be glad to do."

"It is merely this--that you will, for the present, say nothing about the heir having turned up."

"I could have laid my hand on him any moment this twenty years; and I can tell you where to find the parish book with his baptism in it! That I've not spoken proves I can hold my tongue; but I will give no pledge; when the time comes I will speak."

"Are you aware I could have you severely punished for concealing the thing?"

"Fire away. I'll take my chance. But I would advise you not to allow the thing come into court. Words might be spoken that would hurt! I know nothing myself, but there is one that could and would speak. Better let sleeping dogs lie."

"Oh, d.a.m.n it! I don't want to wake 'em! Most old stories are best forgotten. But what do you think: will the boy--What's his name?"

"My father's, sir,--Richard."

"Will Richard, then, as you have taken upon you to call him"--

"His mother gave him the name."

"What I want to know is, whether you think he will go and spread the thing, or leave it to we to publish when I please."

"Did you tell him to hold his tongue?"

"No; he didn't give me time."

"That's a pity! He would have done whatever you asked him."

"Oh! would he!"

"He would--so long as it was a right thing."

"And who was to judge of that?"

"Why the man who had to do it or leave it, of course!--But if he didn't tell me, he's not likely to go blazing it abroad!"

"You said he would go to his mother first: his mother is nowhere."

"So say some, so say not I!"

"Never mind that. Who is it he calls his mother?"

"The woman that brought him up--and a good mother she's been to him!"

"But who is she? You haven't told me who she is!" cried the baronet, beginning to grow impatient; and impatience and anger were never far apart with him.

"No, sir, I haven't told you; and I don't mean to tell you till I see fit."

"And when, pray, will that be?"

"When I have your promise in writing that you will give her no trouble about what is past and gone."