ere to prolong our discussion," said the
Squire. "I don't understand this light way of talking. If you mean
what you have said, sir, I should never expect to see you smile more."

"The smiling makes little difference," said Gerald; but he stopped
short in his talk, and there was a pause among them till the postboy
came up to them with his bag, which Mr Wentworth, with much
importance, paused to open. The young men, who had no special interest
in its contents, went on. Perhaps the absence of their father was a
relief to them. They were nearer to each other, understood each other
better than he could do; and they quickened their pace insensibly as
they began to talk. It is easy to imagine what kind of talk it
was--entire sympathy, yet disagreement wide as the poles--here for a
few steps side by side, there darting off at the most opposite
tangent; but they had begun to warm to it, and to forget everything
else, when a succession of lusty hollos from the Squire brought them
suddenly to themselves, and to a dead stop. When they looked round, he
was making up to them with choleric strides. "What the deuce do you
mean, sir, by having telegrams sent here?" cried Mr Wentworth,
pitching at his son Frank an ominous ugly envelope, in blue and red,
such as the unsophisticated mind naturally trembles at. "Beg your
pardon, Gerald; but I never can keep my temper when I see a telegraph.
I daresay it's something about Charley," said the old man, in a
slightly husky voice--"to make up to us for inventing troubles." The
Squire was a good deal disturbed by the sight of that ill-omened
message; and it was the better way, as he knew by experience, to throw
his excitement into the shape of anger rather than that of grief.

"It's nothing about Charley," said Frank; and Mr Wentworth blew his
nose violently and drew a long breath. "I don't understand it," said
the Curate, who looked scared and pale; "it seems to be from Jack;
though why _he_ is in Carlingford, or what he has to do--"

"He's ill, sir, I suppose--dying; nothing else was to be looked for,"
said the Squire, and held out his hand, which trembled, for the
telegram. "Stuff! why shouldn't I be able to bear it? Has he been any
comfort to me? Can't you read it, one of you?" cried the old man.

"'John Wentworth to the Reverend--'"

"God bless my soul! can't you come to what he says?"

"'Come back directly--you are wanted here; I am in trouble, as usual;
and T.W.--'"

Here the Squir