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 rule, because it pained Grace to pass Durras, and there was always a struggle with Darby to get him by the gateway which he still regarded as his own.

Mr. Jerrold had recaptured his old cheerfulness. Things were not so bad as they might be. He and Gay were tremendously comfortable in the cottage. Their view was really finer than it had been at the big house. Gay could hardly tear herself away from her bedroom window at night—sat there watching the moonlight on the lake instead of going to her bed. She loved the cottage. She even liked the little stable. Would be out there first thing in the morning. He believed she was fonder of Darby than ever, since she had come so near to losing him.

Mr. Jerrold was colouring a meerschaum pipe, and, at different times, he lovingly displayed to Derek the satisfactory fashion in which it was adding tint upon tint. He also had given his annual party to the Mistwell band. Derek and Fawnie had watched the flare of their torches pass Grimstone as they sat in the basket chairs in the porch. And Mr. Jerrold had not failed to give the bandsmen their customary present of money.

"I must dig that twenty-five dollars up," he had said to his daughter. "I've never disappointed those poor beggars yet, and I shan't begin now. I'll do without something myself."

Derek was taking a renewed interest in the work of the farm, and he had a stout ally in Hugh McKay. No fall ploughing thereabout was done more thoroughly nor finished earlier. As the October nights grew cold, Derek would sit with him by the kitchen stove and talk fertilizers and manures by the hour. The little flock of sheep was excellent. One of the yearling rams had taken a first prize at the Brancepeth Fair. The handsome son of Gretta van Lowe had taken a second. The apples and pears had turned