“Why—you can’t think me not sincere, after what I have said!” cried Frank.
“Oh, you are sincere enough at the present moment. I don’t doubt that. The question is, will you be sincere in keeping your good resolutions in the future?”
“I hope I shall. I believe I shall. I will try with all my best energies.”
“Very well. You may have the farm.”
Frank Radcliffe started up in his joy and gratitude, and shook Mr. Brandon’s hands till the purple tassel quivered. He had a squeaky voice and a cold manner, and went in for coughs and chest-aches, and all kinds of fanciful disorders; but there was no more generous heart going than old Brandon’s.
Business settled, the luncheon was ordered in. But Frank was a good deal too impatient to stay for it; and drove away in the pony-gig to impart the news to all whom it might concern. Taking a round to the Torr first, he drove into the back-yard. Stephen came out.
Stephen looked quite old now. He must have been fifty years of age. Hard and surly as ever was he, and his stock of hair was as grizzled as his father’s used to be before Frank was born.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Stephen, as civilly as he could bring his tongue to speak. “Whose chay and pony is that?”
“It belongs to Pitchley’s bailiff. He lent it me this morning.”