harvey woodman was ploughing with a team of six bullocks, and as he plodded behind them over the burnt ground, he sang a strange song understanded of the cattle. it cheered them at their toil, and the low, monotonous notes sometimes broke suddenly, and leapt abruptly a whole octave upward. when the song stopped, the steers also stopped, nor would they resume their labour until the ploughman returned to his music. beside woodman tramped his son to turn the team when necessary. but they made poor ploughing through the heavy and ill-drained ground, and maurice malherb, who watched the operations from a distance, was alive to the fact. his personal unwisdom prompted the enterprise, for he was engaged in attempting to reclaim land that defied the effort; but, as usual, he set all blame upon other shoulders than his own. now he approached mr. woodman and accosted him.

"you're not getting what you might out of those brutes. if you'd sing less and watch your work closer——"

"ban't that, your honour—devil a bit will they go unless a man chants their proper song to 'em. 'tis the nature of the earth, not the cattle."

"nonsense. the land is no worse than the rest aloft there, that i've drained and pared and turned into fine fallow. the cattle go uneasily. i'll wager that fool blacksmith at prince town shoed them ill." he examined the hoof of an ox as he spoke. the inside claws behind were left unprotected, but the outer ones had been carefully shod with iron. malherb perceived that the work was good.

"then he threw them carelessly, i'll wager. these big steers should be thrown with the greatest skill."

"to be just, your honour, 'twas very cleverly done, for i helped myself," answered woodman.

the master turned away without another word. in his stormy mind of late there had been growing a darkness foreign to it. dim suspicions, thrust aside only to reappear, shadowed his waking hours and haunted his pillow. from cursing ill success he had, by rare fits and starts, risen superior to his character and asked himself the reason for it. with impatience and an oath the answer was generally rapped out; but the question returned. in secret arcana of his heart, maurice malherb knew that he had acted with overmuch of haste. thereupon he distributed the blame of his enterprise right and left: and chiefly he censured sir thomas tyrwhitt, in that the knight had always prophesied smooth things. yet honesty reminded malherb that while pursuing the suggestions of local men where it pleased him to do so, he had widely departed from the beaten track of experience in many directions. he remembered a recent interview with the owner of tor royal, and the words bluntly uttered then: that in certain particulars of husbandry malherb attempted the impossible. the impossible, indeed, had always possessed a fatal charm for him. he had of late despatched cattle to bideford fair and sheep to that at bampton—a matter of considerable expense in those days. but no prize nor commendation rewarded his undertaking. he was spending money still with but meagre return for it. he saw his means dwindling, and already the future of his family depended largely upon the success of a midland canal, in which maurice malherb, fired by glowing promises, had embarked a very large proportion of his capital. canals were the rage amongst speculators a hundred years ago, but few sensibly succeeded; many were no more than the schemes of rascals and existed only upon paper.

now this man, conscious of gathering troubles, lifted a corner of the veil that hid his spirit and looked upon himself. the spectacle was disquieting and made him first impatient, then sad. angry he often was, but sadness before this apparition proved something of a new emotion. for a few fleeting moments he glimpsed the real and perceived that his own stubborn pride and boyish vanity were near the roots of life's repeated failures. for once, in the glare of a mental lightning-flash, he saw and understood; then his troubled eyes caught sight of flocks feeding in the bosom of cater's beam; and malherb's misery lifted. scattered upon the hills like pearls, their fleeces washed to snowy whiteness by recent rain, the farmer saw his sheep; and they put heart into him, and dispelled the gloom begotten elsewhere. he turned his back on harvey woodman and failure; he stopped his ears to the cattle song, and looked out upon the moor.

"the music of a sheep-bell rings my fortune," he reflected. "there lies my strength; that wool means high prosperity presently and an issue out of these perplexities."

now his flocks represented the counsel of other men.

a moment later the master went his way with mended spirits, and as he entered his farmyard a grumbler met him. mr. putt revealed a face red to his sandy locks, while the rims of his eyes were even pinker than usual. consciousness of wrong stared out of his face and he spoke with great feeling.

"i does my stint, god he knows. i work by night as well as day, but 'tis too much to be agged into a rage six times a week by they females, dinah beer an' t'other, just because i can't do miracles. ban't my fault things go awry in the fowl-house; ban't in me to alter the laws of nature an'——"

"what's the matter? despite your scanty vocabularies, all you men take a wearisome age to say what might be said in a minute. but if you had more words perhaps you would make shorter speeches."

"ban't vocableries at all, axing your pardon, sir," said tom putt; "'tis rats—an' their breeding is no business of mine. i'm at 'em all the time wi' ferrets an' traps an' terriers; but they will have the chickens, for they'm legion. but what's the sense of mary woodman using sharp words to me? i do all that a man may. look at the barnyard door next time you pass, your honour, an' you'll see varmints of all sizes an' shapes nailed against it. there's owls an' weasels, an' rats' tails by the score, an' martin-cats, an' hawks. i can't do no more; an' leaman cloberry hisself couldn't."

"go your way. i'm satisfied that you work hard enough. we shall get 'em under presently. as to cloberry—the old moth-eaten knave—let him not show his face to me while he shoots foxes."

"there was a brave gert fox round here two nights since," said putt. "i heard un bark, an' he got short in his temper, too, when he found the ducks was out of reach. you could tell by the tone of his voice that he was using the worst language he knowed. an' i told miss grace; an' her laughed an' said she could wish as he'd collared hold of a good fat bird for hisself and his family."

mr. malherb smiled grimly.

"very right and proper," he said. "if any duck of mine will help a good fox to stand before hounds, he's welcome to it. never touch a fox as you hope to be saved, thomas putt. thank the lord cub-hunting begins in a fortnight."

cheered by this reflection, the master proceeded about his business, and putt went the round of the mole-traps to find not a few of mr. cloberry's "velvet-coats" dangling from the hazel switches that he had set. as he returned he met grace about to start on her ride, and hearing of mr. putt's speech with the master, she bid him take to heart what her father had said. then, turning to john lee as they trotted out of sight into the wilderness, she continued upon the same matter.

"to think that within a few short weeks i may win my first brush! but a cub's little brush—it seems so unkind to kill the baby things. still the baby hounds must be brought up in the way they should go—eh, john?"

but the young man's thoughts were far from foxes, because he was now to tell his lady of the conversation with lovey lee.

"you're sad," she said, as they rode over the beam and descended into those heathery wastes that stretched south-east of it. "even the thought of my first brush wins no enthusiasm from you. what's amiss, john? i fear that lovey——?"

"even so," he answered. "'twas but the day before yesterday, and yet it seems long years since i heard it—my death-knell."

"what a word!"

"the true one. i only ask your leave to go. bide here i cannot any more."

grace looked very grave.

"what dreadful thing has fallen out?" she asked. "whatever you have learned, it cannot make you other than you are. and it cannot surely make you love me less."

"my father was your father's brother, grace—your uncle norrington, who died."

she did not answer, but stared before her. a flush lighted her cheek, but it was of exultation rather than dismay, "you're a malherb! how glorious."

he shook his head very sadly.

"not i. my mother's name and my mother's shame is all my portion."

"poor john—'tis hard to smart for others so. yet—you're my own cousin."

"don't think it. these things run by law, not by blood. i'm mere fatherless dust—not worthy to be trod upon by you. i can't live for you now, grace; i might die for you; 'tis the highest fate i hope for."

she reflected for some moments, then answered—

"i do not see that the case is much altered. we had guessed at this, john; it hardly hurts me. we are still as we were. there is nothing between us that prevents me from being your wife."

"how ignorant you are of this cold, cursed world! you argue like an angel might that had never been beyond the gate of heaven. but we must face facts now. all is changed."

"except my word and yours. i've promised to wed you; and a malherb does not break promises. don't i love you dearly? tell me that i do."

"right well i know it."

"then that's your weapon against this cold world you speak of. you've got to make the world warm for yourself—and me; you've got to make the world forget this accident of birth. how are you different? you were born like any other. a man may be born to power; but no man is born great. 'tis but an extra handicap and obstacle at the start. oh, my brains are quick as lightning to-day! you must conquer this thing, as many great men have; you must see that it might have been ten thousand times worse. your father was my father's favourite brother. he was a soldier and died in the wars. now 'tis for you to make my father your friend. then he gets you a commission in the army. then you go to the wars, and—oh, no, no—to think that i can say that! i who still wear black for my brother!"

but he saw her vision of himself—grown great despite his birth. he beheld himself winning a place in the world even worthy to offer her. he was young and sanguine, and her words had thrown a veil over the harsh truth. yet his spirit sank.

"if such a thing could be!"

"such things have been a thousand times. history is rich in them."

"i might do something, yet never anything great enough to offer to you."

"it must mean that you went far away, and i don't think i could let you go. and yet——"

"the thought is too grand even for hope. who am i that i should ever win a commission in his majesty's army?"

"you are the son of a good soldier. the time cries for soldiers; but no, i couldn't let you—oh, dear, gentle john, i couldn't. perchance sir thomas tyrwhitt might—but i can't plot the details in cold blood, and i wish heartily i'd never thought of such a horrid idea at all. you shall not go to the wars for me. you must shine in a peaceful part."

"fighting's the only sure quick way to success in these days. how to get mr. malherb's good word?"

"i've thought of that already. i've been thinking of it ever since you told me, and hating myself for thinking with such a hard heart. you've got a grandmother, and she is shrewdly suspected of a great crime. if, indeed, she robbed dear father, and you could prove it——"

"if i could find the amphora and bring it to him!"

"you must do so! that is what lies before you."

"but it may be all a dream, grace."

"then we must go on with the dream until we waken. our love's no dream at least, and if one way won't serve, we will seek another."

"honesty and right point the only way—for me: that leading out of your life."

"you are downcast and you try to make me so; but you shall not succeed, i promise you. am i nobody, that you talk so easily of the road that leads away from me? do you want to be off with the old love, john? ah! now i know what has fallen out: you've found a pretty girl and one easier to come by!"

"don't—don't! 'tis no time for jesting. my heart's breaking to see my duty so cruel plain."

"your duty lies where your love is, and honour bids you keep your word to me before everything, john. and if you love me well enough to go into the world and fight for me, you shall; though 'tis my heart that will break, not yours, when i think of it. thus it stands: you must win my father to your way and if good chance helps you to bring him back his treasure, then so much the more quickly will you come to your reward."

"it may be so. certainly there is some place that my grandmother used to haunt by night, and i know the direction."

"as a child she nearly killed you for spying; now, as a man, you must do the like again to better purpose. she can't whip you now."

"you will jest."

"the amphora is no jest. secure it, and my father is under an eternal obligation."

"would you have me ask for his daughter?"

"no, indeed; he would fling the amphora back in your face. but you ask—oh, that i should say it—for a commission. yet, please god, the war will be done; and yet, again, if it is, whence are you going to win glory?"

"glory!" he sighed and said no more.

"to be frank," continued grace, "dear father would not keep the amphora now. he loves beautiful things, but he loves his farm better. he needs money. he looks so far ahead, that the present often finds him very straitened. just now 'tis money he most wants, and you have to begin the campaign by finding twenty thousand pounds for him."

"i'll do my best—the lord helping."

"and think not, dear john, that i am light of heart because my tongue wags so fast. i laugh, but my spirit is low enough when i remember all that these things must mean. your life will be full of fret and fever and action; i shall have nothing but thought and hope to fill mine."

"i wish i could believe you. your dangers will be real ones. if i departed, who is to stand between you and peter norcot? since i am to fight, 'tis your battle, not the king's, that i long to enter into."

grace shook her head.

"have no fear for me, john; i can take good care of myself—of that i do assure you. now tell me that no maid more practical and sensible and brave than i, ever set sail to face a sea of troubles."

then fell silence between them for a long season, and there was no sound but the rasp of the dry, burnt heather twigs against their horses' feet.