“My God, I thought as much!” cried the baronet, and started to his feet--but sat down again: the fetter of his gout pulled him back. “Hold up your right hand,” he went on--sir Wilton was a magistrate--“and swear by God that you will never more in your life speak one word to either of those--persons, or leave my house at once.” “Father,” said Richard, his voice trembling a little, “I cannot obey you. To deny my friends and relations, even at your command, would be to forsake my Master. It would be to break the bonds that bind men, God's children, together.” “Hold your cursed jargon! Bonds indeed! Is there no bond between you and your father!” “Believe me, father, I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. I dare not obey you. You have been very kind to me, and I thank you from my heart,--” “Shut up, you young hypocrite! you have tongue enough for three!--Come, I will give you one chance more! Drop those persons you call your brother and sister, or I drop you.” “You must drop me, then, father!” said Richard with a sigh. “Will you do as I tell you?” “No, sir. I dare not.” “Then leave the house.” Richard rose. “Good-bye, sir,” he said. “Get out of the house.” “May I not take my tools, sir?” “What tools, damn you!” “I got some to bind lady Ann's prayer-book.” “She's taken him in! By Jove, she's done him, the fool! She's been keeping him up to it, to enrage me and get rid of him!” said the baronet to himself. “What do you want them for?” he asked, a little calmer. “To work at my trade. If you turn me out, I must go back to that.” “Damn your soul! it never was, and never will be anything but a tradesman's! Damn _my_ soul, if I wouldn't rather make young Manson my heir than you!--No, by Jove, you shall _not_ have your damned tools! Leave the house. You cannot claim a chair-leg in it!” Richard bowed, and went; got his hat and stick; and walked from the house with about thirty shillings in his pocket. His heart was like a lump of lead, but he was nowise dismayed. He was in no perplexity how to live. Happy the man who knows his hands the gift of God, the providers for his body! I would in especial that teachers of righteousness were able, with St. Paul, to live by their hands! Outside the lodge-gate he paused, and stood in the middle of the road thinking. Thus far he had seen his way, but no farther. To which hand must he turn? Should he go to his grandfather, or to Barbara? He set out, plodding across the fields, for Wylder Hall. There was no Miss Brown for him now. Miss Wylder, they told him, was in the garden. She sat in a summer-house, reading a story. When she heard his step, she knew, from the very sound of it, that he was discomposed. Never was such a creature for interpreting the signs of the unseen! Her senses were as discriminating as those of wild animals that have not only to find life but to avoid death by the keenness of their wits. She came out, and met him in the dim green air under a wide-spreading yew.