‘Eh? No, I did not.’
‘Yes,’ said Philip; ‘when old Sir Guy made it an especial point that my father should take the guardianship, he only consented on condition that my uncle should be joined with him; so now my uncle is alone in the trust, and I cannot help thinking something must have happened at Redclyffe. It is certainly not Sir Guy’s writing.’
‘It must wait, unless your curiosity will carry you out in search of papa,’ said Charles; ‘he is somewhere about, zealously supplying the place of Jenkins.’
‘Really, Philip,’ said Laura, ‘there is no telling how much good you have done him by convincing him of Jenkins’ dishonesty. To say nothing of the benefit of being no longer cheated, the pleasure of having to overlook the farming is untold.’
Philip smiled, and came to the table where she was drawing. ‘Do you know this place?’ said she, looking up in his face.
‘Stylehurst itself! What is it taken from?’
‘From this pencil sketch of your sister’s, which I found in mamma’s scrap book.’
‘You are making it very like, only the spire is too slender, and that tree—can’t you alter the foliage?—it is an ash.’
‘Is it? I took it for an elm.’
‘And surely those trees in the foreground should be greener, to throw back the middle distance. That is the peak of South Moor exactly, if it looked further off.’