"I do not think the friend is fine after all," Joyce said; "he laughed at the idea of the post-chaise."
The squire cracked his whip impatiently.
"He may well laugh. Ah! little Joyce, there are many graver questions at issue than the freaks of an over-indulged, reckless boy like Melville. We had a stormy scene in the court to-day. That man who was let off a month, in gaol richly deserved punishment; but there was a division on the bench and my conviction was overruled."
"Oh!" Joyce exclaimed, "I saw a crowd of rough people going up the Bristol Road; they had taken a pony out of a cart, and were dragging it up the hill, with a man in it, who was half asleep."
"Half drunk," said the squire; "that is more likely. They are a rough lot on Mendip, more like savages than the inhabitants of a civilised country."
"What is to be done to make them better, father? Has not Mrs. More tried to get the children taught?"
"Yes, she has been trying for years to make the schools succeed; but there is plenty of labour and little to show for it."
"Perhaps," said Joyce, "there is some good done, though we don't see it. It is always easier to see bad things than good ones; so easy to see faults in those about us, and to be blind to their goodness."
The squire laughed; between this father and daughter there existed a sympathetic friendship wholly independent of the natural tie of parent and child.
"You are right, Joyce, quite right; but I am afraid one does not need glasses to find out the bad things."