It was not entirely to the difference between father and daughter that these varied impressions were owing. The people themselves assumed a tone quite distinctive to each. Sir Marmaduke they had always heard spoken of, as a stern-tempered man, whose severity towards his tenantry was, happily, tempered by the personal kindness of the agent. Captain Hemsworth constantly impressed them with the notion that all harsh measures originated with his principal--the favours came from himself only, the exactions of high rents, the rigorous prosecution of the law, he ever asserted were acts compulsory with him, but always repugnant to his own better feelings. Every little act of grace he accompanied by an assurance, that he “hoped Sir Marmaduke might not hear of it,” as the consequences to himself might prove ruinous. In fact, he contrived to mislead both parties in their estimate of each other, and their first acquaintanceship, it could not be supposed, should dispel the illusion. The peasantry, however, were the first to discover the error: long before Sir Marmaduke had made any progress in deciphering the mystic symbols of _their_ natures, they had read _his_ from end to end. They scanned him with powers of observation no other people in Europe can compete with; and while _he_ was philosophizing about the combined influence of their superstitions, their ignorance, and their apathy to suffering, _they_ were accurately speculating on all the possible benefits which might accrue from the residence amongst them, of so very kind-hearted, but such a _mere_ simpleton of a man as himself. They listened with sincere pleasure--for they love any appeal to themselves--to the precepts he so liberally bestowed regarding “industry” and “frugality;” nor did they ever make the reply, which was ready at every lip, that industry cannot be practised without an occupation, nor frugality be pushed beyond the very borders of starvation. No; they answered with a semblance of concurrence,--“True for you, sir; the devil a lie in it--your honour knows it well.” Or, when pushed home by any argument against their improvidence, or recklessness, the ever-present reply was--“Sure, sir, it's the will of God;” a piece of fatalism, that rescued them from many a difficulty, when no other aid was near. “They are a simple set of people,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he sat at his breakfast; in the small parlour of the lodge, which looked out upon the glen, “Very ignorant, very barbarous, but easily led--I see through them clearly.” “I like them greatly,” said his daughter; “their gratitude knows no bounds for the slightest services; they have a kind of native courtesy, so rare to find amongst a peasantry? how that poor fellow last night wished to climb the cliff, where the eagle's nest is, because I foolishly said I had never seen a young eagle.”