One afternoon, after the lapse of about a week, Dick, leaving the Parsonage after his daily lessons, was surprised to see his father approaching across the glebe. The Squire was on foot: his last horse had been sold long ago.
"Ha, Dick!" he said, as he met his son, "you have finished with Greeks and Romans for the day, then. I have come for a word with the parson. Shall be home to supper."
Dick went on, and his father entered the house.
"Ah, Trevanion, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Carlyon, cordially, his keen eyes not failing to note a certain gravity in his old friend's expression.
"I want your advice, Carlyon," said Mr. Trevanion abruptly.
"And you shall have the best I can give, as you know well. Come into the garden and smoke a pipe with me. Good, honest tobacco, even if 'tis contraband—and I can't swear to that—will do no harm to you or me."
When they were seated side by side in wide wicker chairs beneath the shade of an elm-tree, the Squire drew from his pocket a folded paper which had been sealed at the edges.
"Read that," he said, handing it to the vicar.
Mr. Carlyon carefully rubbed his spectacles, set them on his nose with deliberation, and slowly opened the paper.
"H'm! God bless my soul! Poor old Trevanion!" he murmured, as he read, unconscious that his words were audible. "This is bad news, Trevanion," he said, aloud, looking over the rims of his spectacles with grave concern.