“Only four years older than Lucina. Good Lord!”
The Squire's grasp tightened tenderly. The boy did not struggle longer, but looked up with a wonder of comprehensiveness in the bearded face bent kindly over his. “He looks at me the way father use to,” thought Jerome.
“What made you come to me, my boy?” asked the Squire, presently. “Did you think I could pay the mortgage for you?”
Then Jerome colored furiously and threw up his head. “No, sir,” said he, proudly.
“Why, then?”
“I came because you are a justice of the peace, and know what law is, and—”
“And what?”
“I've always heard you were pleasanter-spoken than he was.”
The Squire laughed. “Pleasant words are cheap coin,” said he. “I wish I had something better for your sake, child. Now let me see what it is you propose. That wood-lot of your father's, you say, Doctor Prescott has offered three hundred dollars for.”
“Yes, sir.”