Margaret Maliphant

								

mother, and the words were so far from accurate, that he could afford
to smile; for there were very few instances in which he came round to
the squire's way of seeing things at that time, although he was very
fond of the squire. The squire himself laughed aloud. He had a rich,
rippling laugh; it did one good to hear it.
"No, no, ma'am," he said, "I can't agree to that; and no reason why it
should be so either." He held out his hand to mother as he spoke.
"I must be off now," he added. "I ought to have gone long ago. We'll
talk it over again another time."
"Oh, won't you stay and have a bit of dinner with us, squire?" cried
mother, in a disappointed voice. "It's just coming in. I know it's not
what you have at home, but it is a fine piece of roast beef to-day."
"Fie, fie, Mrs. Maliphant! don't you be so modest," said the squire,
with his genial smile, buttoning up his overcoat as he spoke.
He always had a gay, easy manner towards the mother--something, I used
to fancy, like what her own younger brother might have had towards her,
or even her own son, although at that time I should have thought it
impossible for a man as old to be mother's son at all. I suppose it was
in consequence of that sad time in the past that he had grown to love
her as I know he did.
"I don't often get a dinner such as I get at your table," added he;
"but I can't stay to-day, for I'm due at home."
Just the words that young man had used at the foot of the village
street. I was determined to find out before the squire left whether
that young man was staying at the Manor or not.
"Perhaps Mr. Broderick has visitors, mother," I suggested.
I glanced at Joyce as I spoke. Her cheeks were poppies.
"What makes you think so?" asked the squire, turning to me and frowning
a little.
"We met a gentleman in town," said I, boldly, although my heart beat a
little; "he helped us with the mare when she reared, and he said he was
a friend of yours."
Mother looked at me, and Joyce blushed redder than ever. Certainly,
for a straightforward and simple young woman who had no more than her
legitimate share of vanity, Joyce had a most unfortunate trick of
blushing. I know it was admired, but I never could see that folk must
needs be more delicate of mind because they blushed, or more sensitive
of heart because they cried. The squire frowned a little more and bit
his lip.
"Ah, it must have been Frank," said he. "He did say he was going to
walk into town this morning. My nephew," added he, in explanation,
turning to mother. "Captain Forrester."
"Your nephew!" exclaimed mother, quite reassured. "He must be but a
lad."
"Oh, not at all; he's a very well-grown man, and of an age to take care
of himself," answered the squire, and it did not strike me then that he
said it a little bitterly. "My sister is a great deal older than I am."
"Of course I have seen Mrs. Forrester," said mother, "and I know she's