"Do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous risk?" I asked.
"Oh, of course he must know it," answered the squire.
And there he stopped short. I did not choose to ask any more. It seemed like mistrusting father to ask questions about his affairs. But I wondered whether he was a man who had "plenty of money at his back."
"I think Harrod is a safe fellow, and a clever fellow," added the squire. "A cool-headed, hard-headed sort of chap, who ought not to be over-sanguine though he is young."
The words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty—they offended me.
"Oh, I am sure you would not have recommended him to father unless you had had a high opinion of him," said I, haughtily. "And I am glad to say that father has a high opinion of him himself, and always follows his advice. I do not suppose that anything that any one said would prejudice father against Mr. Harrod now. In fact we all have the highest opinion of him."
With that I touched Marigold with the whip and sent her capering forward to the cart. Mother started, and reproved me sharply; but at that moment we drew up at the farm gates, and she turned round to beg the squire would spare her a few minutes to give his opinion also upon the contemplated purchase. Harrod looked round, and I was angry, for she had no right to have done it. I do not know how the squire could have consented, but he did so, though half unwillingly, and demurring to Harrod's first right.
"The squire is such a very old friend of ours," I murmured, half apologetically, to the bailiff on the first opportunity. "Mother has so often asked his advice."
"Yes, yes, I quite understand," replied he. And then he added—I almost wondered why—"I suppose you remember him ever since you were a child?"
"Oh yes," laughed I; "he used to play with us when we were little girls and he was a young man."