"Mr. Harrod," I called. He turned at once and waited for me.
"You're going to London one of these days, aren't you?" I said, breathlessly, for I had run up the bank.
"One day before the hop-picking begins," he said, hurriedly, impatient to get on; "but not before the harvest is all in."
He turned, walking on, and I walked by his side.
"Well, when you go, I want you to do something for me," I said. "I want you to buy some books for me."
"Buy some books!" ejaculated he. "What books?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I have saved some money, and I want to buy some books with it. But I don't know what books. I thought you would advise me."
He laughed. "I don't think I'm at all the proper person to advise you what books to buy. I'm not much of a reader myself. I've got my father's books, and have had some pleasant hours with them too, but I don't know if they're the best kind of books for a young woman to read. No, I'm not the proper person to advise you, I'm sure. You'd better ask the squire."
"The squire!" cried I, vexed. "And pray, why should I ask the squire?"
"Well, he's an older friend of yours than I am, and far better suited to advise you," answered Harrod. "And he would do anything for you, I'm sure."