with the following spring fox tor farm was habitable, and mrs. malherb and her daughter prepared to enter their new home. they had spent the winter in exeter, for the old farm by exe passed into other hands at christmas, but mr. malherb himself already lived upon the moor. in february he had gone into residence with kekewich, and though the place was still but partially completed, his labourers also began work upon the scene and made shift to dwell there. good apartments for the people were now finished, and mr. malherb's cattle had also arrived to fill the fine yard and comfortable byres erected for their winter uses. kekewich cried failure from the first, but none laboured more zealously to avert it, none toiled early and late with more strenuous diligence than he.

true to his whim, the master denied annabel malherb and grace one sight of fox tor farm until they actually arrived to dwell there; and even then he so ordered their advent that it fell in darkness. at ten o'clock upon a night in mid-april, mother and daughter passed over the nocturnal moor, vaguely felt its surrounding immensity, and turned from the unknown earth, where it rolled formless and vast around them, to the familiar moon, whose face they knew.

from holne, a border village whither they had driven by stage, mrs. malherb and her daughter now rode on pillions; while behind them came the tinkle of little bells and the thud of heavy hoofs where six pack-horses followed. annabel sat behind her husband; while grace had harvey woodman for her escort. through the silent darkness they passed, and the mother listened to malherb's hopes, and sometimes kissed the round ear next her while she echoed his sanguine mind. but grace paid little heed to woodman, who discoursed without tact upon the complicated miseries of a dartmoor life, and explained how that his father, grandfather, great-grandfather, had all gone steadily downhill before the insidious duchy.

a granite cross at length loomed up against the sky on a lofty ridge, and its significance here uplifted upon the confines of her new life sent a throb to mrs. malherb's heart.

"this be ter hill," said harvey woodman to grace; "an' thicky cross be one of many set up around about by god-fearing men some time since adam. now, if you'll look down into the valley, you'll see a light like a jack o' lantern. that's your home, miss."

with mingled feelings the women gazed, where square and ruddy spots, sunk deep in the silver night, outlined the windows of the farm and welcomed them. the pack-horses, with heavily-laden crooks upon their backs, arrived. then malherb led the way, and his cavalcade went slowly down the hill.

only one face from the past welcomed mrs. malherb and grace, where kekewich stood and lighted them up the steps to the front door. supper awaited the party; then, aweary, and with the emotions of a stranger in a strange land, the girl retired to her little chamber facing west, and her mother sought the company of dinah beer and mrs. woodman. she found them amiable, courteous, and kindly. their outlook upon life was not sanguine, yet a warmth of heart marked them, and the sternness of their days had left no special impress upon their simple natures. sympathy brightened their eyes—a sentiment that astonished the new mistress, for she had not often met with it from her inferiors. yet these women appreciated the fact that she was faced with new problems and new difficulties. they had also seen something of mr. malherb and learned to appraise his qualities.

"you'll come to it, ma'am," said dinah beer, "same as your butivul cows did. they was worritted cruel at first. that gert red 'un, with a white star on her forehead—'marybud' by name—why, i could a'most swear that her shed tears when first she got here; but now she an' the rest have settled to the moor an' larned the ways of it like christians."

"an' master be to the manner born," declared mary woodman. "my man says he never seed a gentleman gather knowledge so quick. sir thomas tyrwhitt from tor royal was over here last week, an' he said us had all done wonders."

the wife readily gathered up this comfort, and presently, ere she entered into sleep, a gentle satisfaction crowned her spirit, and her thoughts were a prayer, half thankfulness, half petition.

her daughter, too, from gloom arose into a healthy cheerfulness. she set about ordering her treasures to her liking, and did not retire until midnight. then, where a sinking moon touched the river mists with light, she gazed, plucked happiness from that wonderful spectacle, and so slept contented and trustful of her destiny.

early in the morning, hungering for the first glimpse of this new world, grace hastened to her window and looked out upon dartmoor. a lark, invisible in the blue above, found her heart in that dawn hour. the day was glorious, and the bird music dimmed her eyes, so that the girl had to blink a little before she could see the outspread world. beneath her the farm threw its shadow upon reclaimed heath and ploughed land. new grey walls extended round about, and raw pinewood gates marked the enclosures. beyond stretched out the cup of the mire, and sere rushes still spread a pallor upon it, where ridge after ridge of peat ranged away until detail vanished in the prevailing monochrome. red sunrise fires touched this waste into genial colour, and threads of gold flashed through its texture where streamlets ran. majestic size and fundamental simplicity marked the materials of the sunrise pageant. the swincombe river sang on her way to dart; fox tor's turrets, touched with rose, ascended southward, and beyond, looming darkly against the south, appeared the bosom of cater's beam. a spire of blue smoke, miles away in the brown distance, marked lovey lee's hut, while northerly rose infant plantations at tor royal, and the spring light of larches made a home upon the hill, and spoke of human enterprise.

grace drank the crystal air and listened to the lark. then another sight arrested her, and she noted, upon a little mound at the edge of the river, a cross above three broad, shallow steps. it stood upon a square pedestal which had been bevelled by chamfering around the socket, and grace knew that she saw the historic cenotaph of childe the hunter.

the lark, the river, the cross, all spoke their proper message, and kind chance had willed that this first day of the new life should be lovely, heralded by sunshine, unfolded beneath blue skies. grace malherb's young spirit swam out through the golden gates of the morning, and she praised her god in wordless thoughts. a leaden day, haunted by low and crawling mists, a welcome of dripping rain, and the plover's melancholy mew, had awakened other emotions; but instead was this embodiment of triumphant spring—a dawn of cloudless glory and the lark's uplifted joy.

half an hour later grace was watching mrs. beer milk "marybud." dinah—a brown-faced woman with neat wrists and ankles, grey eyes, and a face still pretty—looked up from under her sunbonnet, where her cheek was pressed against the cow, and saw a tall, rather thin maiden who had just stopped growing. with loving hand nature had completed her girl's five feet eight inches, and now she was about to turn the child into a fair woman. this the dairymaid readily perceived.

"us must keep the best of the cream for 'e, miss," she said. "you wants for they pretty hands to be plumper, an' your cheeks too."

"how kind to think of such a thing! i can return the compliment, mrs. beer."

"nay; i've had my plump time. i be near five-an'-forty. yet i was round once, an' so milky as a young filbert nut. now i be in the middle season, when us does our hard work. but you—i seem dartymoor will soon bring colour to your cheeks, though it couldn't make they eyes no brighter. here, take an' drink, will 'e? i love to see young things drinking milk. milk be the very starting-place of life, come to think of it. i never had no babies, worse luck, though i always felt a gert softness for 'em."

"but i'm not a baby, mrs. beer; i'm nearly seventeen!"

grace laughed and drank. the lustre of her red lips dulled through the milky film. she gasped after her drink, and dinah saw her small white teeth.

"you'm a bowerly maiden," she said, with extreme frankness. "so lovely as the bud o' the briar in june; an' dartymoor will make a queen of 'e afore long. fresh air, an' sweet water, an' miles of heather to ride over. your eyes be old friends to me, miss—the brown of the leaves in autumn—just like my dead sister's."

"i have my father's eyes," said grace; but dinah questioned it.

"his be darker far. there ban't no storm in yours—they don't flash lightning. an', please god, they'll have no cause to rain either. wealth's a wonderful thing, though what's best worth money ban't purchasable all the same."

richard beer had arrived and heard his wife's platitude.

"money's a power 'pon dartymoor, however," he said, "an' i'm glad the master 'pears to be made of it, if i may say so without offence, miss."

"not at all," declared grace. "father isn't made of money, and you mustn't think so. he looks for a return very soon for all his outlay."

beer touched his hat with great respect before answering.

"as to that, mustn't count on no miracles, miss malherb. the master be larning that a'ready. us can't go no quicker'n nature's own gait. she won't be pushed because a chap here an' there goes bankrupt. 'tis only at love-making she works so fast, not at farm-making."

"her ways do often look slow to a man in a hurry," said dinah.

"but us have got to wait for 'em to work, all the same," concluded beer, "an' all the cusses of david never made one blade o' grass sprout so quick as a drop of warm rain."

this apparent allusion to her father's forcible modes of speech saddened grace.

"'tis very true," she answered, then turned to the house and went in to breakfast.