“Yes, father.”
“Ah, if you had been six and twenty, how useful to me you could have been!”
Fred flushed.
“I could be useful to you now, father, if you would let me be,” he said in an injured tone. “I could have ridden over to Barnstaple with your letter quicker than Samson did, and I shouldn’t have tired Dodder so much.”
“Yes, I thought of that, Fred, but you are only a boy, and you were at play.”
There was a silence for a few moments, and then Fred spoke.
“Is it wrong for a boy to play, father?”
“Heaven forbid. No; of course not. Play goes with youth, and it gives boys energy, strength, and decision. Yes, Fred, play while you can. Manfully and well. But play.”
Fred looked up at his father in a puzzled way, as he stopped short, and began beating his side with the despatch he had received. There was a dreamy look in his eyes, which were fixed on vacancy, as he muttered—
“Yes; I must be right. I have hesitated long, but it is a duty. But what does it mean—friendships broken; the land in chaos; brother against brother; perhaps father against son. No, no,” he added, with a shudder, as he turned sharply on his boy. “Fred, my lad,” he tried, “if trouble comes upon our land, and I have to take side with those who fight—”