Audley was the first to speak, and to put forth the right hand, which he stole slowly from its place at his breast, on which the lock of hair still stirred to and fro at the heave of the laboring heart. "William," said he, with his rich, deep voice, "this is kind. You are come to see me, now that men say 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 coming 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 spoken of well, 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 brother's shoulder, said, "Randal Leslie tells me you are wise--a consummate man of the world. No doubt you are so. And Parson Dale tells me that he is sure you have warm feelings--which I take to be a strange thing for one who has lived so long in London, and has no wife and no child--a widower, and a Member of Parliament--for a commercial city, too. Never smile; it is no smiling matter with me. You know a foreign woman, called Negra or Negro--not a blackymoor, though, by any means--at least on the outside of her. Is she such a woman as a plain country gentleman would like his only son to marry--ay or no?" "No, indeed," answered Audley, gravely, "and I trust your son will commit no action so rash. Shall I see him or her? Speak, my dear William. What would you have me do?" "Nothing; you have said enough," replied the Squire, gloomily; and his head sank on his breast.