things. He gets worse every year; and what would
become of the girls and the little children if the estate were to come
into Jack's hands, is a thought I don't like to dwell upon, Frank. I
suppose he never writes to you?"

"Not for years past," said the Curate--"not since I was at Oxford.
Where is he now?"

"Somewhere about town, I suppose," said the aggrieved father, "or
wherever the greatest scamps collect when they go out of town--that's
where he is. I could show you a little document or two, Frank--but
now," said the Squire, shutting up a drawer which he had unlocked and
partly opened, "I won't; you've enough on your mind with Gerald, and
I told you I should be glad of your advice about Cuthbert and Guy."

Upon which the father and son plunged into family affairs. Cuthbert
and Guy were the youngest of the Squire's middle family--a "lot" which
included Frank and Charley and the three sisters, one of whom was
married. The domestic relations of the Wentworths were complicated in
this generation. Jack and Gerald were of the first marriage, a period
in his history which Mr Wentworth himself had partly forgotten; and
the troop of children at present in the Hall nursery were quite beyond
the powers of any grown-up brother to recognise or identify. It was
vaguely understood that "the girls" knew all the small fry by head and
name, but even the Squire himself was apt to get puzzled. With such a
household, and with an heir impending over his head like Jack, it may
be supposed that Mr Wentworth's anxiety to get his younger boys
disposed of was great. Cuthbert and Guy were arrows in the hand of the
giant, but he had his quiver so full that the best thing he could do
was to draw his bow and shoot them away into as distant and as fresh a
sphere as possible. They were sworn companions and allies, but they
were not clever, Mr Wentworth believed, and he was very glad to
consult over New Zealand and Australia, and which was best, with their
brother Frank.

"They are good boys," said their father, "but they have not any brains
to speak of--not like Gerald and you;--though, after all, I begin to be
doubtful what's the good of brains," added the Squire, disconsolately,
"if this is all that comes of them. After building so much on Gerald for
years, and feeling that one might live to see him a bishop--but,
however, there's still _you_ left; you're all right, Frank?"

"Oh yes, I am all right," said the Curate, with a sigh; "but neithe