"Oh, ’tis no wonder," said the Squire bitterly. "No one knew of his crime but three, you and I and John Hammond; only Hammond had proof of it, and he is dead. My worthless cousin learnt of his death, I warrant you; the Devil has quick couriers for such as he; and he comes back, relying on my weakness and your holiness. But I’ll speak no more of him; he is gone, and I hope I shall never see him again. There’s my boy Dick: what is to become of him? He is seventeen; he ought to be making his way in the world. I can’t put him to a profession; I keep him at home drudging for us; and but for your kindness, Carlyon, he would be as ignorant and raw as the meanest farm-hind. ’Tis not right; ’tis cruelty to the lad; and he will live to curse the day he was born a Trevanion." "Come, come, this is not like you, Squire," said Mr. Carlyon warmly. "The lad is doing very well. He lives an open, honest life, and a useful one. What if his hands are horny? He makes good progress with his books, too, and will be fit in a year or two to win a sizarship at Oxford, and he will do well there, take orders, or maybe become secretary to some great person. You need fear nothing for Dick. No; ’tis for yourself and your good wife we must think. And now let us put our heads together. What say you to visiting Sir Bevil, and seeking further grace? I will myself undertake the office." "Never!" cried the Squire firmly. "I will have no man supplicating and beseeching on my behalf. No; let what must come, come; never will I whine and grovel for mercy." "You are an obstinate old fool, Roger Trevanion," said the parson, laying a friendly hand on the other’s arm. "But I own I sympathise with your feeling. Well, then, my counsel is—and you may scorn it—do nothing." "Nothing!" "Simply wait. The foreclosure must come, I see that; but the other mortgagee has not moved; you will still have a roof above you; you make no profit of the mortgaged lands, and so will be not a whit worse off than you are now, save in the one point of pride. That pride of yours has been your snare, Trevanion." "Well I know it!" "I don’t preach, except on Sundays, but I believe in my heart that this trouble will turn out for your good. Hold fast your rock, old friend; ’twas sound advice, even though it came from a witch. No man can give you better, and I am superstitious enough to believe that while you follow it the Trevanions will not come to beggary." The two friends sat talking for some time longer. When the Squire rose to go away, he said— "I thank you, Carlyon. You have done me good. I see nothing but darkness ahead, but I’ll take your advice; I’ll stick to the ship, and keep my colours flying, and who knows?—perhaps I shall weather it out after all." They shook hands and parted, and the parson returned to his study to read over an ode of Horace in readiness for Dick’s lesson next day.