Richard was at the moment walking with Mr. Wingfold in the rectory garden. They were speaking of what the Lord meant when he said a man must leave all for him.

As soon as he entered his father’s room some time later, he saw that something was wrong.

“What is it, father?” he said.

“Richard, sit down,” said sir Wilton. “I must have a word with you. What young man and woman were you walking with two nights ago, not far from Wylder Hall?”

“My brother and sister, sir—the Mansons.”

“My God, I thought as much!” cried the baronet, jumping to his feet. “Hold up your right hand,” he went on—sir Wilton was a magistrate—“and swear, so help you God, that you will never more in your life speak one word to either of those persons, or leave my house at once.”

“Father,” said Richard, his voice trembling a little, “I cannot obey you. To deny my friends and relations, even at your command, would be to forsake my Master. It would be to break the bonds that bind men, God’s children, together.”

“Hold your cursed jargon! Bonds indeed! Is there no bond between you and your father?”

“Believe me, father, I am very sorry, but I cannot help it. I dare not obey you. You have been very kind to me, and I thank you from my heart—”

“Shut up, you young hypocrite! You have tongue enough for three!—Come, I will give you one chance more! Drop those persons you call your brother and sister, or I drop you.”

“You must drop me, then, father!” said Richard with a sigh.

“Will you do as I tell you?”

“No, sir. I dare not.”

“Then leave the house.”

Richard rose.

“Good-bye, sir,” he said.

“Get out of the house.”

“May I not take my tools, sir?”

“What tools, curse you?”

“I got some tools to bind my lady’s prayer book.”

“She’s taken him in! By Jove, she’s done it, the fool! She’s been keeping him up to it, to enrage me and get rid of him!” said the baronet to himself.

“What do you want them for?” he asked, a little calmer.

“To work at my trade. If you turn me out, I must go back to that.”

“Damn your soul! It never was and never will be anything but a tradesman’s! Damn my soul, if I wouldn’t rather make young Manson my heir than you!—No, by Jove, you shall not have your damned tools! Leave the house. You cannot claim a chair leg in it!”

Richard bowed and went, got his hat, and walked from the house with about thirty shillings in his pocket.

His heart was like a lump of lead, but he was not dismayed. Outside the gate he paused in the middle of the road, thinking. Which way should he go, to his grandfather’s or to Wylder Hall?