"You seem tired, sir," said the driver, a stout young farmer of the higher class of tenants, and he looked down compassionately on the boy's pale countenance and weary stride. "Perhaps we are going the same way, and I can give you a lift?"
It was Randal's habitual policy to make use of every advantage proffered to him, and he accepted the proposal frankly enough to please the honest farmer.
"A nice day, sir," said the latter, as Randal sat by his side. "Have you come far?"
"From Rood Hall."
"Oh, you be young Squire Leslie," said the farmer, more respectfully, and lifting his hat.
"Yes, my name is Leslie. You know Rood, then?"
"I was brought up on your father's land, sir. You may have heard of Farmer Bruce?"
Randal.—"I remember, when I was a little boy, a Mr. Bruce, who rented, I believe, the best part of our land, and who used to bring us cakes when he called to see my father. He is a relation of yours?"
Farmer Bruce.—"He was my uncle. He is dead now, poor man."
Randal.—"Dead! I am grieved to hear it. He was very kind to us children. But it is long since he left my father's farm."