"I'm afraid I shan't bring you much money," she said.
"What's money? That's the least thing. I shall have plenty enough, no doubt."
"What will your father do? Then there's your uncle, Mr. Nathan. He's terrible rich, by all accounts, and he thinks very well of you."
"I shall be all right. But I'm a lazy man—too lazy. I shall turn my hand to something steady when we're married."
"Such a dreamer you are. Not but what, with all your great cleverness, you ban't worth all the young men put together for brains."
"I'm going to set to. My father's often at me about wasting my life. But, though he'd scorn the word, he's a bit of a dreamer too—in his way. You'd never guess it; but he spends many long hours all alone, brooding about things. And he's a very sharp-eyed, clever man. He marks the seasons by the things that happen out of doors. He'll come down off our tor that cheerful sometimes, you wouldn't believe 'twas him. 'Curlew's back on the Moor,' he'll say one day; then another day, 'Oaks are budding'; then again, 'First frost to-night,' or 'Thunder's coming.' His bark is worse than his bite, really."
"'Tis his terrible eyes I fear. They look through you. He makes me feel small, and I always hate anybody that does that."
"You mustn't hate him. Too many do already. But 'twould be better to feel sorry for him. He's often a very unhappy old man. I feel it, but I can't see the reason, and he says nothing."
She pouted.
"I wish I hadn't got to see him. Why, his own brother—your Uncle Nathan—even he can't hit it off with him. And I'm sure there must be something wrong with a man that can't get on with Mr. Nathan. Everybody is fond of him; but I've often heard him say——"