"You do not like farming," his father answered. "You never did; and sometimes I have felt sorry to keep you here, and yet I could not spare you. You have done the work of two, and you have done it for your bare keep."
"I have done it for the squire," Ralph answered, with a cynical laugh.
"Ah, well, it is over now, my boy, and we know the worst. In a few years nothing will matter, for we shall all be asleep."
Ralph glanced suddenly at his father, but quickly withdrew his eyes. There was a look upon his face that hurt him—a look as of some hunted creature that was appealing piteously for life.
For weeks past Ralph had wished that his father would get angry. If he would only storm and rave at fortune generally, and at the squire in particular, he believed that it would do him good. Such calm and quiet resignation did not seem natural or healthy. Ralph sometimes wondered if what his father predicted had come true—that the loss had broken his heart.
They reached the outer edge of the farm at length, and David paused in the shadow of a tree.
"Come here, my boy," he said. And Ralph went and stood by his side. "You see the parlour chimney?" David questioned.
"Yes."
"Well, now draw a straight line from this tree to the parlour chimney, and what do you strike?"
"Well, nothing except a gatepost over there in Stone Close."