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 its steep red banks. Jammery kept abreast of Derek and raised his voice above the roar of the water.

"How's Fawnie, Mr. Vale?"

"Very well."

"And the baby?"

"He's well, too."

"I suppose you're quite settled down together?"

"Quite."

"I hope Fawnie has got rid of her Indian ways."

They had reached the gate leading into the paddock, and with his hand on it Vale turned sharply to Jammery in a sudden temper.

"Now," he said, "Be off. I've had enough of you."

"Don't get annoyed, Mr. Vale. I didn't mean anything harmful. You're so passionate, I'm afraid to say what I came to say. It's a proposal I came a long way to make."

"I don't care to hear it."

"But you may thank me for it afterwards."

"Well, go ahead," said Derek, his curiosity aroused.

"You won't lay hands on me if it angers you?"

"I won't promise that. You'd better go while you're safe."

"No. I'll say what I came for, but you must remember I mean no harm—to her or to you."

Derek regarded him steadily but made no reply.

"It's about Fawnie," Jammery went on nervously. "I've heard it said that marrying her has ruined your life, that none of your neighbours have anything to do with you, that you can't keep any help, and that the farm is going to rack and ruin."

"Well, what would you do about it if—it were the case?"

"I'd propose—" he drew nearer, while modulations of greed, boldness, and watchfulness flitted like shadows across his thin, strangely handsome face, "to relieve you of