The Squire's Daughter. Hocking Silas Kitto

my boy," David said at length, with a little shake in his voice, "he's done his worst."

      "It's only what I expected," Ralph answered. "Now, we've got to do our best."

      David shook his head.

      "There's no more best in this world for me," he said.

      "Don't say that, father. Wherever we go we shan't work harder than we've done on the farm."

      "Ah, but here I've worked for myself. I've been my own master, with no one to hector me. And I've loved the place and I've loved the work. And I've put so much of my life into it that it seems like part of myself. Boy, it will break my heart!" And the tears welled suddenly up into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

      Ralph did not reply. He felt that he had no word of comfort to offer. None of them as yet felt the full weight of the blow. They would only realise how much they had lost when they had to wander forth to a strange place, and see strangers occupying the home they loved.

      CHAPTER VIII

      CONFLICTING EMOTIONS

      Two days later Sir John's agent came across to Hillside Farm, and made a careful inspection of the premises, after which he made out a list of repairs that needed doing, and handed it to David.

      "What is this?" David asked, taking the paper without looking at it.

      "It is a list of repairs that you will have to execute before leaving the place."

      "Oh, indeed!" And David deliberately tore the paper in half, then threw the pieces on the ground and stamped upon them.

      "That's foolish," the agent said, "for you'll have to do the repairs whether you like it or no."

      "I never will," David answered vehemently. And he turned on his heel and walked away.

      In the end, the agent got the repairs done himself, and distrained upon David's goods for the amount.

      By Michaelmas Day David was ready to take his departure. Since his interview with the squire he had never been seen to smile. He made no complaint to anyone, neither did he sit in idleness and mope. There was a good deal to be done before the final scene, and he did his full share of it. The corn was threshed and sold. The cattle were disposed of at Summercourt Fair. The root crops and hay were taken at a valuation by the incoming tenant. The farm implements were disposed of at a public auction, and when all the accounts had been squared, and the mortgage cleared off, and the ground rent paid, David found himself in possession of his household furniture and thirty pounds in hard cash.

      David's neighbours sympathised with him greatly, but none of them gave any more for what they bought than they could help. They admitted that things went dirt cheap, that the cattle and implements were sold for a great deal less than their real value; but that was inevitable in a forced sale. When the seller was compelled to sell, and there was no reserve, and the buyers were not compelled to buy, and there was very little competition, the seller was bound to get the worst of it.

      David looked sadly at the little heap of sovereigns – all that was left out of the savings of a lifetime. He had spent a thousand pounds on the farm, and, in addition, had put in twelve years of the hardest work of his life, and this was all that was left. What he thought no one knew, not even his wife, for he kept his thoughts and his feelings to himself.

      The day before their departure, David took Ralph for a walk to the extreme end of the farm.

      "I have something to tell you, my boy, and something to show you."

      Ralph wondered what there was to see that he had not already seen, but he asked no questions.

      "You may remember, Ralph," David said, when they had got some distance from the house, "that I told you once that I had discovered a tin lode running across the farm?"

      "Yes, I remember well," Ralph answered, looking up with an interested light in his eyes.

      "I want to show it to you, my boy."

      "Why, what's the use?" Ralph questioned, after a momentary pause. "If it were a reef of gold it would be of no value to us."

      "Yes, that seems true enough now," David answered sadly, "but there's no knowing what may happen in the future."

      "I don't see how we can ever benefit by it, whatever may happen."

      "I am not thinking of myself, Ralph. My day's work is nearly over. But new conditions may arise, new discoveries may be made, and if you know, you may be able to sell your knowledge for something."

      Ralph shook his head dubiously, and for several minutes they tramped along side by side in silence.

      Then David spoke again.

      "It is farewell to-day, my boy. We shall toil in these fields no more."

      "That fact by itself does not trouble me," Ralph said.

      "You do not like farming," his father answered. "You never did; and sometimes I have felt sorry to keep you here, and yet I could not spare you. You have done the work of two, and you have done it for your bare keep."

      "I have done it for the squire," Ralph answered, with a cynical laugh.

      "Ah, well, it is over now, my boy, and we know the worst. In a few years nothing will matter, for we shall all be asleep."

      Ralph glanced suddenly at his father, but quickly withdrew his eyes. There was a look upon his face that hurt him – a look as of some hunted creature that was appealing piteously for life.

      For weeks past Ralph had wished that his father would get angry. If he would only storm and rave at fortune generally, and at the squire in particular, he believed that it would do him good. Such calm and quiet resignation did not seem natural or healthy. Ralph sometimes wondered if what his father predicted had come true – that the loss had broken his heart.

      They reached the outer edge of the farm at length, and David paused in the shadow of a tree.

      "Come here, my boy," he said. And Ralph went and stood by his side. "You see the parlour chimney?" David questioned.

      "Yes."

      "Well, now draw a straight line from this tree to the parlour chimney, and what do you strike?"

      "Well, nothing except a gatepost over there in Stone Close."

      "That's just it. It was while I was digging a pit to sink that post in that I struck the back of the lode."

      "And you say it's rich in tin?"

      "Very. It intersects the big Helvin lode at that point, and the junction makes for wealth. There'll be a fortune made out of this little farm some day – not out of what grows on the surface, but out of what is dug up from underground."

      "And in which direction does the lode run?"

      "Due east and west. We are standing on it now, and it passes under the house."

      "Then it passes under Peter Ladock's farm also?" Ralph questioned. And he turned and looked over the boundary hedge across their neighbour's farm.

      "Ay; but the lode's no use out there," David said.

      "Why?"

      "Well, you see, 'tisn't mineral-bearing strata, that's all. I dug a pit just where you are standing, and came upon the lode two feet below the surface. But there's no tin in it here scarcely. It's the same lode that the spring comes out of down in the delf, and I've sampled it there. But all along that high ridge where it cuts through the Helvin it's richer than anything I know in this part of the county."

      "But the tin might give out as you sink."

      "It might, but it would be something unheard of, if it did. If I know anything about mining – and I think I know a bit – that lode will be twenty per cent. richer a hundred fathoms down than it is at the surface."

      "Oh, well!" Ralph said, with a sigh, "rich or poor, it can make no difference to us."

      "Perhaps not – perhaps not," David said wistfully. "But it may be valuable to somebody some day. I have passed the secret to you. Some day you may pass it on to another. The future is with God," and he drew a long breath, and turned his face