Do you remember the dear old oak-tree, with the
branches that came down so low, where you used to swing Mary and me?"
"And the high branch where I used to watch for my father coming home
from the justice-meeting. And the meadow where the hounds killed the
fox that had baffled them so long! Do you hear anything of the place
now, Rose?"
"Mr. Enderby told us something," said Rose, sadly. "You know who has
got it, Edmund?"
"Who?
"That Master Priggins, who was once justices' clerk."
"Ha!" cried Edmund. "That pettifogging scrivener in my father's
house!--in my ancestors' house! A rogue that ought to have been
branded a dozen years ago! I could have stood anything but that!
Pretty work he is making there, I suppose! Go on, Rose."
"O Edmund, you know it is but what the King himself has to bear."
"Neighbour's fare! as you say," replied Edmund, with a short dry
laugh. "Poverty and wandering I could bear; peril is what any brave
man naturally seeks; the acres that have been ours for centuries
could not go in a better cause; but to hear of a rascal such as that
in my father's place is enough to drive one mad with rage! Come,
what has he been doing? How has he used the poor people?"
"He turned out old Davy and Madge at once from keeping the house, but
Mr. Enderby took them in, and gave them a cottage.
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