me, now that men say that I am fallen. The minister you censured is no
more; and you see again the brother."

The squire was softened at once by this address. He shook heartily the
hand tendered to him; and then, turning away his head, with an honest
conviction that Audley ascribed to him a credit which he did not deserve,
he said, "No, no, Audley; I am more selfish than you think me. I have
come--I have come to ask your advice,--no, not exactly that--your
opinion. But you are busy?"

"Sit down, William. Old days were coining over me when you entered; days
earlier still return now,--days, too, that leave no shadow when their
suns are set."

The proud man seemed to think he had said too much. His practical nature
rebuked the poetic sentiment and phrase. He re-collected himself, and
added, more coldly, "You would ask my opinion? What on? Some public
matter--some parliamentary bill that may affect your property?"

"Am I such a mean miser as that? Property--property? what does property
matter, when a man is struck down at his own hearth? Property, indeed!
But you have no child--happy brother!"

"Ay, ay; as you say, I am a happy man; childless! Has your son
displeased you? I have heard him well spoken of, too."

"Don't talk of him. Whether his conduct be good or ill is my affair,"
resumed the poor father, with a testy voice--jealous alike of Audley's
praise or blame of his rebellious son. Then he rose a moment, and made
a strong gulp, as if for air; and laying his broad brown hand on his