For there was no money in Blackthorn Farm. It was difficult enough to grow pasture to feed the few cattle. And so John Allen Dale had determined to make a gentleman of his only son. He had been studying now for over three years in London—ever since he had left Taunton Grammar School. It was two years since John Dale had even seen his first-born, and his heart thrilled with pride and expectation when he thought of the homecoming. It would make up for all the years of grinding and scraping. He had been even forced to mortgage a small part of the unproductive land in which an old tin mine was situated, unworked for many years now and valueless—though once it had promised to retrieve the fortunes of the Dales. It had hurt his pride at the time, and he had not told Rupert. For the mortgagee was Sir Reginald Crichton, of Post Bridge Hall, who had gradually bought up all the land lying in the valley; a rich man and influential, yet a stranger to Dartmoor and therefore unwelcome. But John Dale consoled himself with the thought that when his son was a gentleman he would have no use for the old homestead of Blackthorn. It would just sink into oblivion and disappear, and there would be nothing left but memory—and the everlasting morass and moorlands. But the grand old name of Dale would rise phoenix-like from the ashes and be handed down to future generations by his son. Just as Rupert finished dressing there was a knock at the outer door and Ruby Strode burst into the sitting-room bringing with her the sunshine and the breath of summer. The vision that had been conjured before Rupert’s eyes disappeared: he was glad enough to dismiss the thoughts and memories that it had brought. Ruin! He looked at Ruby, and advanced to meet her with open arms. "Be careful, you mustn’t crush me," she laughed. "What do you think of my new frock?—and isn’t this a duck of a hat, straight from Paris?" Rupert stepped back and gazed at her. "By Jove, how beautiful you are," he whispered. "You look simply——" He searched for an adjective in vain. Ruby gave a satisfied smile. She was really in love with Rupert, and she valued his opinion as much or more than she would have valued the opinion of a woman friend—or enemy. Remarkably good-looking, of a type of beauty rather unusual, she had found the stage an excellent matrimonial market. But life had taught her that love was to be given, not sold. Unfortunately, she had given it to a penniless young man whose heritage was as unstable as the bog on which his house was built. But he was strong, he was clean, he was young. And he had won her. "We shall have to hurry up or we shall miss the train," she cried. "I wish we could motor down, but I suppose that’s impossible." Rupert laughed light-heartedly and emptied the contents of his pockets on to the table.