"Old!" said the squire; "old am I?"

"Yes," said Tom; "if you were not so old-so old-" panting and puffing.

"You would kick me?"

"Yes, I would."

Mr. Strafford had stopped while this dialogue was proceeding, and loosened his grip a little. So old? That would have been a reason with some boys for doing it, he thought to himself, instead of for refraining. He was beginning to grow tired of holding this active, indignant boy; his fingers ached, and he was obliged to shift his hold. He began to wish that he had adopted an easier method with him.

"What is your name?" he said.

"I won't tell you till you let me go."

"Will you run away if I take my hand off?" "No."

"Will you go with me to the magistrate?"

"I said I would, did I not?"

Mr. Strafford, holding his prisoner at arm's length, looked him now, for the first time, in the face. The boy was red with rage, flushed up to the forehead. His eye flashed, as with fire; his lips were curled with a scornful expression; and he looked without flinching straight into the old man's face. Mr. Strafford was struck with the fearless character of the child, and almost quailed before him as he met his indignant look; yet he could not take his eyes off him, and his gaze became more intent as he held his young prisoner before him and looked down into his face. His head hung forward, his lips, which had been firmly set together, parted, and seemed to tremble and shake as if at the caprice of some great emotion. Tom Howard felt the fingers gradually relax their grasp, then for a moment it was renewed, then again relaxed, until almost before he was aware of it he found himself free.

"Now I'll go with you," he said, directly. "I suppose you are Mr. Strafford?"

"Why do you suppose so?"

"Because I have heard what sort of man he is, and you are like the description."

"What have you heard of him?"

"A true account, so far as I can judge; but go on. If we are going to a magistrate the sooner the better."

"This way," said the squire; "walk before me."

"No," said Tom. "I am not going to be driven like a sheep." He placed himself by Mr. Strafford's side, at the distance of two or three yards, and they walked on together so.

"If I were not an old man," said Strafford, "I suppose you would run away from me?"

"You have no right to suppose so," the boy answered. "Have not I given you my word? What do you take me for? Do you think I would tell a lie?"

Mr. Strafford halted again, and fixed his eyes earnestly on Tom's face. He had been looking at him sideways as they walked along, and seemed to be fascinated with his appearance, though it would have been difficult to say from the working of his features whether he was pleased with what he saw, or the contrary. Presently he resumed his walk, stepping more feebly than his wont. His lips continued to tremble, as if he were muttering to himself.

"Where are we going?" Tom asked, after they had proceeded thus for some distance.

"This way," the squire answered, and went on murmuring to himself, "So old, so old!"

"That's your house," said Tom, as Mr. Strafford turned towards the Hall; "I am not going there; I did not promise to go there." "Let us go in and rest awhile," said the squire. "I am tired, I am an old man, you know,"

"Well, then, don't stop long," he answered. "I'll wait out here while you rest."

"Come with me," Mr. Strafford said, in a quiet and friendly

tone.

"No, indeed."

Come," he repeated, in a voice that was almost imploring. Tom hesitated. He did not like to refuse, lest Mr. Strafford should think that he wanted to take an unfair advantage of him now that he confessed himself to be fatigued. So they went on towards the Hall, walking side by side as before.

They entered the house through the yard, and by the back door. An elderly woman was busy in the kitchen as they passed it, and Mr. Strafford stopped to speak to her. She looked at Tom inquiringly, and was evidently not very well pleased to see him.

"Not just yet," her master answered, in reply to her question about the dinner. "What have you got, though?"

She mentioned some not very appetising dish, and Mr. Strafford shook his head, and passed on to the parlour, Tom following him.

It was a large room, with two or three oil-paintings upon the walls representing ponies and dogs. The furniture was substantial, and had once been handsome, but was now old and worn. The window curtains seemed to have hung where they were for years, and although they had been good and costly, were now faded, and dusty, and limp. The carpet was in holes, and had been covered here and there with pieces of matting, which were also worn through. Everything about the place had an ancient and neglected appearance.

There are two aspects of age, both in persons and things. An old house, well taken care of, with bright panelled rooms, polished floors, an ample hearth, and a bright, cheerful fire upon it in winter, or a bunch of fresh evergreens in summer,

with snow-white blinds to the windows, and ivy-berries or roses peeping in from outside, furnished with chairs and tables of dark oak, which shine, not with French polish or varnish, but with the glow of honest labour, the heavy carpet of quiet colours, and those well toned down, and if a little worn here and there the least conspicuous object in the room-such a house and such a parlour is more pleasing to the eye, and affords more real comfort and repose, than any of the smart modern villas fresh from the hands of painters and paper-hangers, with their new dining and drawing-room "suites," their reedy chairs and their spring-stuffed "easies," in which one cannot sit down without lolling or reclining like an invalid, and from which one cannot rise without a struggle. But an old house, allowed to go to decay, the walls dusty and discoloured, the woodwork dropping from its position, and old furniture covered with dirt and stains, is, on the other hand, offensive both to sight and smell, and suggestive of still greater inconveniences. The newest of new places is greatly to be preferred to such a combination of antiquity and neglect.

It is the same with persons as with things. An old man or an old woman, nicely cared for, clean, fresh, and healthy in appearance, placid and comfortable, both in mind and body, may be very pleasant to look upon. Those even who have been plain and coarse-featured, and of awkward figure when in their prime, often grow handsome as they grow old; the furrows upon their foreheads, the shrunken cheeks, the white and scanty hair, and the thin lips, give an air of refinement and even dignity to the countenance, with which the quietude and repose of the form, yielding to its weight of years, and submitting patiently to the gentle burden, is in pleasant harmony; but an old man, slovenly, unkempt, careless of himself, and uncared for by others, an old man, restless, impatient, petulant, weary of his life, yet loth to part with it,-an old man, parsimonious and

stingy, denying himself the necessaries of his condition, and hoarding up his money to the last, only for hoarding's sake, is both mentally and physically as painful a spectacle as human nature can supply. Time is very gentle in his operations; Nature is kind. Our own faithfulness or indiscretion, our own care or neglect, in regard to the conditions of our existence, make all the difference.

Poor old Mr. Strafford, with his old house and its old furniture, were dreary specimens of the sordid, the mean, the miserable, and the disagreeable aspects of antiquity.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE OLD SQUIRE.

Strange is the heart of man, with its quick mysterious instincts.

Longfellow.

IT down," said Mr. Strafford to his young prisoner, as he

into the old, faded, dusty, fusty parlour.

"No," said the latter decidedly; "not in this house." Why not?" the squire asked, without looking at him. "You called me a thief!" said Tom.

"No, no, no!" the old man exclaimed, as if smitten with sudden pain.

"You said as much."

"I did not mean it; don't think any more of it; forget it. I said it in anger, in haste; I have repented of it ever since, ever since. God only knows how I have repented of it!"

He spoke in such an earnest and lamentable tone that it was evident his mind was wandering and recurring to some event long past. Tom Howard thought of what the game