"No, mother; my books don't tell me that it is a good heart that gets on in the world: it is a hard head," replied Randal with a rude and scornful candor. "But I can read no more just now; come out, Oliver."
So saying, he slid from his mother's hand and left the room.
When Oliver joined him, Randal was already on the common; and, without seeming to notice his brother, he continued to walk quickly and with long strides in profound silence. At length he paused under the shade of an old oak, that, too old to be of value save for firewood, had escaped the axe. The tree stood on a knoll, and the spot commanded a view of the decayed house—the old dilapidated church—the dismal, dreary village.
"Oliver," said Randal between his teeth, so that his voice had the sound of a hiss, "it was under this tree that I first resolved to—"
He paused.
"What, Randal?"
"Read hard; knowledge is power!"
"But you are so fond of reading."
"I!" cried Randal. "Do you think, when Woolsey and Thomas-à-Becket became priests, they were fond of telling their beads and pattering Aves?—I fond of reading!"
Oliver stared; the historical allusions were beyond his comprehension.