"The rent!" echoed I, under my breath. "The rent is due to Squire Broderick."
"Yes," agreed Harrod.
"Father has been punctual with his rent all his life," continued I, proudly, "I've often heard him say so. Nothing would persuade him to be a day late with the rent."
"No, of course," said Harrod, quickly.
And then he was silent. I flushed hot in the dim light.
I knew now what Mr. Hoad had meant, and I hated him in my heart worse than I had ever hated him before, for what he had meant.
"But that's what Hoad counts on," continued Harrod, rapidly, as though suddenly making up his mind to speak. "He is a low, vulgar fellow, and he would think such a thing natural enough. He can see no other reason why your father should not have consented to stand by his candidate at the election."
A sudden revelation came to me.
"Was that what the article was about that you tried to keep out of father's way?" I asked.
He nodded. My heart flamed with anger at the treachery of the man who had called himself father's friend, but through it there was a very broad streak of gratitude to the man who had been his friend without calling himself so. But I did not say so; I only repeated aloud what I had told myself inwardly.