"You always seem to me to be very busy," said Harrod.
"Oh no," insisted I; "it was father I used to help."
"Don't you help him now?" asked he.
"No," I answered, shortly; and as I spoke the recollection of my grievance swept over me, and brought the tears very close, "he doesn't need me."
Mr. Harrod did not say a word, he did not even look at me, and I was grateful to him for that; but I was sure that he had understood, and I grew more sore than ever, knowing that I had let him guess at my sore place. We walked on in silence.
"I used to love the Waverley novels when I was a lad," said he, changing the subject kindly.
"Don't you now?" asked I.
"I dare say I should if I read them, but I have to read stiffer books now—when I read at all."
"Books on agriculture! I suppose," said I, scornfully; "but father says a little practical knowledge is worth all the books in the world."
It did not strike me at the moment how very rude this speech was; but Mr. Harrod smiled.