"A-muddling and a-messing with bits o' clay. Making little figgers, like, and tries to bake 'em in the oven." "Oh, I see what you mean. What sort of figures?" "All sorts, sir. Little clay figgers of horses, dogs, pigs--why, you'd scarce believe it, sir--last week I found him making the figger of a naked 'ooman! A naked 'ooman! Why, the lad could never a' seen such a thing." Abraham Leigh waited with open eyes to hear Mr. Herbert's opinion of such an extraordinary, if not positively unusual, proceeding. Mr. Herbert smiled. "Perhaps your son is a youthful genius." "Genius or not, I want to know, sir, what to do wi' him. How's the boy to make a living? A farmer he'll never be." "You follow me and I will show you something." Mr. Herbert led his guest to his drawing-room--a room furnished with the taste of a travelled man. As the farmer gaped at its splendor, he directed his attention to four beautiful statues standing in the corners of the room. "I gave the man who made those seven hundred pounds for them, and could sell them to-morrow for a thousand if I chose. That's almost as good as farming, isn't it?" His tenant's eyes were wide with amazement. "A thousand pounds, sir!" he gasped. "Why, you might have bought that fourteen-acre field with that." "These give me more pleasure than land," replied Mr. Herbert. "But about your boy; when I am riding by I will look in and see what he can do, then give you my advice." The farmer thanked him and returned home. As he jogged along the road to Watercress Farm, he muttered at intervals: "A thousand pounds in those white figures! Well, well, well, I never did!" Mr. Herbert was a man who kept a promise, whether made to high or low. Five days after his interview with Abraham Leigh he rode up to the door of the farm. He was not alone. By his side rode a gay, laughing, light-haired child of thirteen, who ruled an indulgent father with a rod of iron. Mr. Herbert had been a widower for some years; the girl, and a boy who was just leaving Harrow for the university, being his only surviving children. The boy was, perhaps, all that Mr. Herbert might have wished, but he could see no fault in the precocious, imperious, spoilt little maid, who was the sunshine of his life. She tripped lightly after her father into the farm-house, laughing at the way in which he was obliged to bend his head to avoid damage from the low doorway; she seated herself with becoming dignity on the chair which the widowed sister, who kept house for Abraham Leigh, tendered her with many courtesies. A pretty child, indeed, and one who gave rare promise of growing into a lovely woman. The farmer was away somewhere on the farm, but could be fetched in a minute if Mr. Herbert would wait. Mr. Herbert waited, and very soon his tenant made his appearance and thanked his visitor for the trouble he was taking on his behalf. "Now let me see the boy," said Mr. Herbert, after disclaiming all sense of trouble.