"I think you are hard upon him, sir," said the son to the father. "Of course you think so. At any rate you'll say so," said the Squire. "One would suppose I was thinking only of myself to hear you talk." "I know what you're thinking of," said Ralph slowly; "and I know how much I owe you." "I sometimes think that you ought to curse me," said the Squire. After this, at this moment, with such words ringing in his ears, Ralph found it to be impossible to expostulate with his father. He could only take his father's arm, and whisper a soft feminine word or two. He would be as happy as the day was long, if only he could see his father happy. "I can never be happy till I have placed you where you would have been," said the Squire. "The gods are just, and our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us." He did not quote the line to himself, but the purport of it hung heavy on him. And yet he thought it hard that because he had money in his pocket he could not altogether make himself free of the scourge. On the following morning he was less vituperative and less unreasonable, but he was still intent upon the subject. After breakfast he got his son into his own room,--the room in which he did his magistrate's work, and added up his accounts, and kept his spuds and spurs,--and seriously discussed the whole matter. What would it be wise that they should do next? "You don't mean to tell me that you don't wish me to buy it?" said the Squire. No; Ralph would not say that. If it were in the market, to be bought, and if the money were forthcoming, of course such a purchase would be expedient. "The money is forthcoming," said the Squire. "We can make it up one way or another. What matter if we did sell Brownriggs? What matter if we sold Brownriggs and Twining as well?" Ralph quite acceded to this. As far as buying and selling were concerned he would have acceded to anything that would have made his father happy. "I won't say a word against this fellow, since you are so fond of him," continued the Squire. Ralph, though his father paused, made no reply to the intended sarcasm. "But you must allow that he had a reason for writing such a letter as he did." "Of course he had a reason," said Ralph. "Well;--we'll say that he wants to keep it." "That's not unnatural." "Not at all. Everybody likes to keep what he's got, and to get as much as he can. That's nature. But a man can't eat his cake and have it. He has been slow to learn that, no doubt; but I suppose he has learned it. He wouldn't have gone to Sir Thomas Underwood, in the way he did, crying to be helped,--if he hadn't learned it. Remember, Ralph, I didn't go to him first;--he came to me. You always forget that. What was the meaning then of Sir Thomas writing to me in that pitiful way,--asking me to do something for him;--and he who had I don't know how much, something like L800 a year, I take it, the day he came of age?" "Of course he has been imprudent."