The road now became pretty good, and the farmer put his horse into a brisk trot.
"But which way be you going, sir? I don't care for a few miles more or less, if I can be of service."
"I am going to Hazeldean," said Randal, rousing himself from a reverie. "Don't let me take you out of your way."
"Oh, Hawleigh Farm is on the other side of the village, so it be quite my way, sir."
The farmer then, who was really a smart young fellow—one of that race which the application of capital to land has produced, and which, in point of education and refinement, are at least on a par with the squires of a former generation—began to talk about his handsome horse, about horses in general, about hunting and coursing: he handled all these subjects with spirit, yet with modesty. Randal pulled his hat still lower down over his brows, and did not interrupt him till past the Casino, when, struck by the classic air of the place, and catching a scent from the orange trees, the boy asked abruptly—"Whose house is that?"
"Oh, it belongs to Squire Hazeldean, but it is let or lent to a foreign Mounseer. They say he is quite the gentleman, but uncommonly poor."
"Poor," said Randal, turning back to gaze on the trim garden, the neat terrace, the pretty belvidere, and (the door of the house being open) catching a glimpse of the painted hall within—"poor, the place seems well kept. What do you call poor, Mr Bruce?"
The farmer laughed. "Well, that's a home question, sir. But I believe the Mounseer is as poor as a man can be who makes no debts and does not actually starve."
"As poor as my father?" asked Randal openly and abruptly.
"Lord, sir! your father be a very rich man compared to him."