"But when? when?" hastily interrupted Mr. Chattaway. "Yesterday afternoon. My father came in directly after you rode away, and I gave him your message. He said he would go up to the Hold at once, and speak to you; and took the field way instead of the road." "Now, how could he take it? He knew it was hardly safe for strangers. Not but that the bull ought to have known him." "He had a red cravat in his hand, and he thinks that excited the bull. It tossed him into the ditch, and he lay there, undiscovered, until past ten at night." "And he is badly hurt?" "He is dying," replied George, "dying now. I think that is why they sent us from the room." Mr. Chattaway paused in dismay. Though a hard, selfish man, who had taken delight in quarrelling with Mr. Ryle and putting upon him, he did possess some feelings of humanity as well as his neighbours; and the terrible nature of the case naturally called them forth. George strove manfully to keep down his tears; relating the circumstances was almost too much for him, but he did not care to give way before the world, especially before that unit in it represented by Mr. Chattaway. Mr. Chattaway rested his elbow on the gate, and looked down at George. "This is very shocking, lad. I am sorry to hear it. What will the farm do without him? How shall you all get on?" "Thinking of that has been troubling him all night," said George. "He said we might get a living at the farm, if you would let us do it. If you would not be hard," he added, determined to speak out. "Hard, he called me, did he?" said Mr. Chattaway. "It's not my hardness that has been in fault, but his pride. He has been as saucy and independent as if he did not owe me a shilling; always making himself out my equal." "He is your equal," said George, speaking gently in his sadness. "My equal! Working Tom Ryle the equal of the Chattaways! A man who rents two or three hundred acres and does half the work himself, the equal of the landlord who owns them and ever so many more to them!--equal to the Squire of Trevlyn Hold! Where did you pick up those notions, boy?" George had a great mind to say that in strict justice Mr. Chattaway had no more right to be Squire of Trevlyn Hold, or to own those acres, than his father had; not quite so much right, if it came to that. He had a great mind to say that the Ryles were gentlemen, and once owners of what his father now rented. But George remembered they were in Chattaway's power; he could sell them up, and turn them from the farm, if he pleased; and he held his tongue. "Not that I blame you for the notions," Mr. Chattaway resumed, in the same thin, unpleasant tones--never was there a voice more thin and wiry than his. "It's natural you should have got them from Ryle, for they were his. He was always----But there! I won't say any more, with him lying there, poor fellow. We'll let it drop, George."