"Right—what is he worth? Put that question, with my compliments, to my half-brother. What stuff he did talk, the other night, on the malt tax, to be sure!"
"Mr. Egerton has had so many other things to think of, that we must excuse his want of information upon one topic, however important. With his strong sense, he must acquire that information, sooner or later; for he is fond of power; and, sir,—knowledge is power!"
"Very true;—very fine saying," quoth the poor Squire, unsuspiciously, as Randal's eye rested upon Mr. Hazeldean's open face, and then glanced towards Frank, who looked sad and bored.
"Yes," repeated Randal, "knowledge is power;" and he shook his head wisely, as he passed the bottle to his host.
Still, when the Squire, who meant to return to the Hall next morning, took leave of Frank, his heart warmed to his son; and still more for Frank's dejected looks. It was not Randal's policy to push estrangement too far at first, and in his own presence.
"Speak to poor Frank—kindly now, sir—do;" whispered he, observing the Squire's watery eyes, as he moved to the window.
The Squire rejoiced to obey—thrust out his hand to his son—"My dear boy," said he, "there, don't fret—pshaw!—it was but a trifle after all. Think no more of it."
Frank took the hand, and suddenly threw his arm round his father's broad shoulder.
"Oh, sir, you are too good—too good." His voice trembled so, that Randal took alarm, passed by him, and touched him meaningly.
The Squire pressed his son to his heart—heart so large, that it seemed to fill the whole width under his broadcloth.