"That was the gentleman who took me for a peddler, eh?" said Richard.
"He is not quite so wise as his namesake—is he?"
"Oh yes, Sir; Solomon Coe has a long head: the longest, father says, of any in these parts. He has made his own way famously in the world—or, rather, under it, for he is a miner. He used to work in the coal-pits up Durham way, but—"
"Is that why he looks so black?" interposed Richard, laughing.
"Nay, Sir, I didn't notice that," said Harry, simply. "Very likely he was down Dunloppel this morning. It half belongs to him, father says; and if this lode turns out well, he will be very rich."
"And your father would be glad of that, would he not?"
"Yes, indeed, Sir; for Solomon is the son of his old friend and preserver, as I told you."
"But it would not please you quite so much—eh, Miss Harry?"
"Not so much as father—certainly not," answered the girl, gravely. "It seems to me folks are rich enough when they don't spend half they get; just as other folk—like Mr. Carew, who owns all about here—are poor enough, with all their wealth, who pay out of their purse twice what comes into it."
"Mr. Carew is known here for a spendthrift, is he, then?"
"Well, Sir, it's only gossip, for he has never set foot here in his life, I reckon; but, from what we hear, he must fling away his money finely. However, as father says, there's one excuse for him—he has neither chick nor child of his own. Eh, but you're looking white, Sir; Gethin air is apt to nip pretty sharp those who are not accustomed to it. You had best not try the castle to-day."