“So, sir,” cried the pater, stopping him, “I hear you are in practice now, and intend to become a respectable man. It’s time you did.”
“Ay, at last,” replied Ben good-humouredly. “It is a long lane, Squire, that has no turning.”
“Don’t you lapse back again, Mr. Ben.”
“Not if I know it, sir. I hope I shall not.”
“It was anxiety on your score, you know, that troubled your good father’s mind in dying.”
“If it did not bring his death on,” readily conceded Ben, his light tone changing. “I know it all, Squire—and have felt it.”
“Look here,” cried the Squire, catching at Ben’s button-hole, which had a lovely lily-of-the-valley in it, “there was nothing on earth your poor patient father prayed for so earnestly as for your welfare; that you might be saved for time and eternity. Now I don’t believe such prayers are ever lost. So you will be helped on your way if you bear steadfastly onwards.”
Giving the young man’s hand a wring, the Squire turned off on his way. In half-a-minute he was back again.
“Hey, Mr. Benjamin?—here. How is Sir Dace Fontaine? I suppose you have just left him?”