"That must vex the poor foolish ambitious man. Oho! you admire this Mr Trevanion much, eh? Yes; that fire of manner, his fine words, and bold thoughts were made to dazzle youth."
"Fine words, my dear uncle!—fire! I should have said, in hearing Mr Trevanion, that his style of conversation was so homely, you would wonder how he could have won such fame as a public speaker."
"Indeed!"
"The plough has passed there," said my father.
"But not the plough of care: rich, famous, Ellinor his wife, and no son!"
"It is because his heart is sometimes sad, that he would see us."
Roland stared first at my father, next at me.
"Then," quoth my uncle, heartily, "in God's name let him come. I can shake him by the hand, as I would a brother soldier. Poor Trevanion! Write to him at once, Sisty."
I sat down and obeyed. When I had sealed my letter, I looked up, and saw that Roland was lighting his bed candle at my father's table; and my father, taking his hand, said something to him in a low voice. I guessed it related to his son, for he shook his head, and answered in a stern hollow voice, "Renew grief if you please—not shame. On that subject—silence!"