would not take orders and hold the family living. They argued the matter
till it was too late for Alfred to go into the army, the only career for
which he had expressed any desire; and then Mr. Thorne found himself face
to face with a gentle and lazy resistance which threatened to be a match
for his own hard obstinacy. Alfred didn't mind being a farmer. But his
father was troubled about the necessary capital, and doubted his son's
success: "You will go on after a fashion for a few years, and then all the
money will have slipped through your fingers. You know nothing of
farming."--"That's true," said Alfred.--"And you are much too lazy to
learn."--"That's very likely," said the young man. So Mr. Thorne looked
about him for some more eligible opening for his troublesome son; and
Alfred meanwhile, with his handsome face and honest smile, was busy making
love to Sarah Percival, the rector's daughter.

The little idyl was the talk of the villagers before it came to the
squire's ears. When he questioned Alfred the young man confessed it readily
enough. He loved Miss Percival, and she didn't mind waiting. Mr. Thorne was
not altogether displeased, for, though his intercourse with the rector was
rather stormy and uncertain, they happened to be on tolerable terms just
then. Sarah was an only child, and would have a little money at Mr.
Percival's death, and Alfred was much more submissive and anxious to please
his father under these altered circumstances. The young people were not to
consider themselves engaged, Miss Percival being only eighteen and Alfred
one-and-twenty. But if they were of the same mind later, when the latter
should be in a position to marry, it was understood that neither his father
nor Mr. Percival would oppose it.

Unluckily, a parochial question arose near Christmas-time, and the squire
and the clergyman took different views of it. Mr. Thorne went about the
house with brows like a thunder-cloud, and never opened his lips to Alfred
except to abuse the rector. "You'll have to choose between old Percival and
me one of these days," he said more than once. "You'd better be making up
your mind: it will save time." Alfred was silent. When the strife was at
its height Maurice was drowned while skating.

The poor fellow was hardly in his grave before the storm burst on Alfred's
head. If Mr. Thorne had barely tolerated the idea of his son's marriage
before, he found it utterly intolerable now; and the decree went fort