Clydesfold nodded, and drew the old man’s arm within his. “Yes; I have already written instructions to my solicitor to secure the place. And”—he added, slowly and distinctly, for the squire had begun to wince and draw his arm away as if he feared Clydesfold was going to offer to give it back to him—“and I am not going to part with it. I always liked it. I have learned to love and covet it. You don’t mind my buying it, do you, sir? I shall treat it reverently, be sure.”
“No, no, no!” said the squire, the tears starting to his eyes. “I would rather you had the old place than any man in the world. If you had been my son——” He stopped. “We shan’t keep you waiting long, Clydesfold,” he said.
“Don’t, please,” said Lord Clydesfold, quite calmly. “The sooner you go the better I shall be pleased, for, you see, I want to do it up, and—and take her away at once, sir!” he broke off, rather inconsequently. “Come inside and let us talk over your plans. I wish”—the color rose to his face—“I wish I were going with you.”
The squire returned to the Grange in about an hour.
“My dear, could you guess who has bought the old place?” he said.
“Yes; Lord Clydesfold,” she replied, with her eyes flashing. “And—and—oh, papa, papa,” and she burst into tears, “you would not take it from him?”
The squire soothed her.
“My dear, he hasn’t offered it to me,” he retorted, rather dryly. “He intends living here himself.”
She stared and wiped her eyes.
“And when can we go?” she demanded, restlessly.