"A deal of a man's life comes and goes in three years--I've found that out;" and he puffed away at his pipe again. While Roger was turning over in his mind what answer to make to this truism, the squire again stopped his smoking and spoke. "I remember when there was all that fuss about the Prince of Wales being made regent, I read somewhere--I daresay it was in a newspaper--that kings and their heirs-apparent were always on bad terms. Osborne was quite a little chap then: he used to go out riding with me on White Surrey;--you won't remember the pony we called White Surrey?" "I remember it; but I thought it a tall horse in those days." "Ah! that was because you were such a small lad, you know. I'd seven horses in the stable then--not counting the farm-horses. I don't recollect having a care then, except--_she_ was always delicate, you know. But what a beautiful boy Osborne was! He was always dressed in black velvet--it was a foppery, but it wasn't my doing, and it was all right, I'm sure. He's a handsome fellow now, but the sunshine has gone out of his face." "He's a good deal troubled about this money, and the anxiety he has given you," said Roger, rather taking his brother's feelings for granted. "Not he," said the Squire, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and hitting the bowl so sharply against the hob that it broke in pieces. "There! But never mind! I say, not he, Roger! He's none troubled about the money. It's easy getting money from Jews if you're the eldest son, and the heir. They just ask, 'How old is your father, and has he had a stroke, or a fit?' and it's settled out of hand, and then they come prowling about a place, and running down the timber and land--Don't let us speak of him; it's no good, Roger. He and I are out of tune, and it seems to me as if only God Almighty could put us to rights. It's thinking of how he grieved _her_ at last that makes me so bitter with him. And yet there's a deal of good in him! and he's so quick and clever, if only he'd give his mind to things. Now, you were always slow, Roger--all your masters used to say so." Roger laughed a little-- "Yes; I'd many a nickname at school for my slowness," said he. "Never mind!" said the Squire, consolingly. "I'm sure I don't. If you were a clever fellow like Osborne yonder, you'd be all for caring for books and writing, and you'd perhaps find it as dull as he does to keep company with a bumpkin-squire Jones like me. Yet, I daresay, they think a deal of you at Cambridge," said he, after a pause, "since you've got this fine wranglership; I'd nearly forgotten that--the news came at such a miserable time." "Well, yes! They're always proud of the senior wrangler of the year up at Cambridge. Next year I must abdicate."