“What do you read?”
“Just now, sir, I am reading Scott’s poems.”
“Indeed. What books do you favor, as a rule?”
Delighted to have a sympathetic listener, Martin forgot his troubles in pouring forth a catalogue of his favorite authors. The more Mr. Herbert questioned him the more eager and voluble he became. The boy had the rare faculty of absorbing the joys and sorrows, the noble sentiments, the very words of the heroes of romance, and in this scholarly gentleman he found an auditor who appreciated all that was hitherto dumb thought.
Several people passing along the road wondered what “t’ passon an’ oad John Bolland’s son were makkin’ sike deed about,” and the conversation must have lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, when the vicar heard the chimes of the church clock.
He laughed genially. Although, on his part, there was an underlying motive in the conversation, Martin had fairly carried it far afield.
“You have had your revenge on me for sending my daughter away,” he cried. “My lunch will be cold. Now, will you do me a favor?”
“Of course, sir; anything you ask.”
“Nay, Martin, make that promise to no man. But this lies within your scope. About four o’clock leave your crow’s nest and drop over to Thor ghyll. I may be there.”