"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