Squire, (interrupting.)—“She was a good little woman enough; but to compare her to my Harry!”
Parson.—“I don’t compare her to your Harry; I don’t compare her to any woman in England, sir. But you are losing your temper, Mr Hazeldean!”
Squire.—“I!”
Parson.—“And people are staring at you, Mr Hazeldean. For decency’s sake, compose yourself, and change the subject. We are just at the Albany. I hope that we shall not find poor Captain Higginbotham as ill as he represents himself in his letter. Ah! is it possible? No, it cannot be. Look—look!”
Squire.—“Where—what—where? Don’t pinch so hard. Bless me, do you see a ghost?”
Parson.—“There—the gentleman in black!”
Squire.—“Gentleman in black! What!—in broad daylight! Nonsense!”
Here the Parson made a spring forward, and, catching the arm of the person in question, who himself had stopped, and was gazing intently on the pair, exclaimed—
“Sir, pardon me; but is not your name Fairfield? Ah, it is Leonard—it is—my dear, dear boy! What joy! So altered, so improved, but still the same honest face. Squire, come here—your old friend, Leonard Fairfield.”
“And he wanted to persuade me,” said the Squire, shaking Leonard heartily by the hand, “that you were the gentleman in black; but, indeed, he has been in strange humours and tantrums all the morning. Well, Master Lenny; why, you are grown quite a gentleman! The world thrives with you—eh! I suppose you are head-gardener to some grandee.”