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 and leaves among the good ones, combined with the mildness of the winter, had caused a great deal of rot. The sound apples had to be separated and washed, and the decayed thrown to the pigs. The air about the apple-house was full of a sweet, acrid, ciderish smell.

Derek anxiously waited for a new man to be sent by the Immigration Agency in York, but every farm seemed to be in need of help, and experienced men were few.

One morning in late May Hugh strode up to Derek, where he stood on the porch snuffing the fresh breeze from the lake. Phœbe followed Hugh closely, her eyes dancing with excitement behind her spectacles.

"Guid mornin', sir," said Hugh, "and I've got to tell ye that Newbigging's flitted. He was restless all day yesterday, and last nicht he sat by the window peerin' out and wouldna coom to bed, and when he did, he kept me awake wi' his tossing. Then, this morn he must have been up with the birds, for when I woke at sunrise he was gone, and his wee bag, and his box wi' the gilt collar studs, and his wee red book of songs. He's flitted for certain."

"And I called over the fence and told Bob Gunn," said Phœbe, "and he said it was all one could expect from one of those chaps from Dundee. He's getting pretty sick of Chard's, Bob is."

That evening Bob himself came to Derek, short, stocky, and rosy as ever. "I hear Newbigging's made off," he said.

"Yes, what's that to you?" asked Derek, shortly.

"Nothing. But I'll come back and fill his place if ye say the word, Mr. Vale."

"What, you want to leave Chard after only a month?"

"A month can seem like a lifetime, sometimes, sir. He's a regular slave-driver, Chaird is. The very first nicht I was there after an awfu' day's work, he says after supper, 'Come on now, Bob, and get busy cuttin' up potatoes for seed.'