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 were able still to share in soul when physically they were held apart by half the width of the world. Perhaps that is why, during all those long and barren years of waiting, they were able to preserve their freshness and fecundity of heart, to keep their lives still capable of this eventual blossoming.

It is a pity that they have no children, though, nobody to work for, and hand this cherished place to, when they die? A better land system, now, would earlier have rewarded Peter’s labours, and done its best to secure to the country descendants of so worthy a stock. Well, that is as it may be. I believe, too, that there is a little nephew of Peter’s, an orphan, still at home in England, whom Catherine has set her heart on bringing out as soon as it can be afforded. But I should like to see you suggest either to Catherine or Peter that they are not still quite young people themselves, with years and years of vigorous toil before them. Heaven grant they have!

But what is Shot barking about now?—so gleefully, too, and with such a welcoming tail. Is it your master, old fellow? Why, indeed, it actually is—here comes Peter, walking up the grass-track: a long, cadaverous, but wiry-looking man, with serious, deep-set eyes. Back already—and alone? the wethers sold, and so early? What, and at top-price, too? Well done, Mr. Ross! Brains are better than muscle, after all, even when it comes to farming. Long-headed experience is not altogether out of it in the race with dash and go.

But come, now, we really must be off, despite the kind and pressing invitation to “stay dinner.” Well, at least they will walk down the orchard with