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."

FARMER BRUCE, apologetically.--"I am sure he was very sorry to go. But,
you see, he had an unexpected legacy--"

RANDAL.--"And retired from business?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"No. But having capital, he could afford to pay a good
rent for a real good farm."

RANDAL, bitterly.--"All capital seems to fly from the lands of Rood. And
whose farm did he take?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"He took Hawleigh, under Squire Hazeldean. I rent it now.
We've laid out a power o' money on it. But I don't complain. It pays
well."

RANDAL.--"Would the money have paid as well, sunk on my father's land?"

FARMER BRUCE.--"Perhaps it might, in the long run. But then, sir, we
wanted new premises--barns, and cattle-sheds, and a deal more--which the
landlord should do; but it is not every landlord as can afford that.
Squire Hazeldean's a rich man."

RANDAL.--"Ay!"

The road now became pretty good, and the farmer put his horse into a
brisk trot.

"But which way be you going, sir? I don't care for a few miles more or
less, if I can be of service."

"I am going to Hazeldean," said Randal, rousing himself from a reverie.
"Don't let me take you out of your way."

"Oh, Hawleigh Farm is on the other side of the village, so it be quite
my way, sir."

The farmer then, who was really a smart young fellow--one of that race
which the application of capital to land has produced, and which in
point of education and refinement, are at least on a par with the
squires of a former generation--began to talk about his handsome horse,
about horses in general, about hunting and coursing: he handled all
these subjects with spirit, yet with modesty. Randal pulled his hat
still lower down over his brows, and did not interrupt him till past the
Casino, when, struck by the classic air of the place, and catching a
scent from the orange-trees, the boy asked, abruptly, "Whose house is
that?"

"Oh, it belongs to Squire Hazeldean, but it is let or lent to a foreign
Mounseer. They say he is quite the gentleman, but uncommonly poor."

"Poor," said Randal, turning back to gaze on the trim garden, the neat
terrace, the pretty belvidere, and (the door of the house being open)
catching a glimpse of th