“But you are so fond of reading.”
“I!” cried Randal. “Do you think, when Wolsey and Thomas-a-Becket became priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering Aves? I fond of reading!”
Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.
“You know,” continued Randal, “that we Leslies were not always the beggarly poor gentlemen we are now. You know that there is a man who lives in Grosvenor Square, and is very rich,—very. His riches come to him from a Leslie; that man is my patron, Oliver, and he—is very good to me.”
Randal’s smile was withering as he spoke. “Come on,” he said, after a pause,—“come on.” Again the walk was quick, and the brothers were silent.
They came at length to a little shallow brook, across which some large stones had been placed at short intervals, so that the boys walked over the ford dryshod. “Will you pull down that bough, Oliver?” said Randal, abruptly, pointing to a tree. Oliver obeyed mechanically; and Randal, stripping the leaves and snapping off the twigs, left a fork at the end; with this he began to remove the stepping-stones.
“What are you about, Randal?” asked Oliver, wonderingly.
“We are on the other side of the brook now, and we shall not come back this way. We don’t want the stepping-stones any more!—away with them!”