So it was fixed. We were to go out to Hope Farm on Saturday afternoon; and it was also understood that if the air and the life suited Mr Holdsworth, he was to remain there for a week or ten days, doing what work he could at that end of the line, while I took his place at Eltham to the best of my ability. I grew a little nervous, as the time drew near, and wondered how the brilliant Holdsworth would agree with the quiet quaint family of the minister; how they would like him, and many of his half-foreign ways. I tried to prepare him, by telling him from time to time little things about the goings-on at Hope Farm. “Manning,” said he, “I see you don’t think I am half good enough for your friends. Out with it, man.” “No,” I replied, boldly. “I think you are good; but I don’t know if you are quite of their kind of goodness.” “And you’ve found out already that there is greater chance of disagreement between two ‘kinds of goodness’, each having its own idea of right, than between a given goodness and a moderate degree of naughtiness—which last often arises from an indifference to right?” “I don’t know. I think you’re talking metaphysics, and I am sure that is bad for you.” “‘When a man talks to you in a way that you don’t understand about a thing which he does not understand, them’s metaphysics.’ You remember the clown’s definition, don’t you, Manning?” “No, I don’t,” said I. “But what I do understand is, that you must go to bed; and tell me at what time we must start tomorrow, that I may go to Hepworth, and get those letters written we were talking about this morning.” “Wait till to-morrow, and let us see what the day is like,” he answered, with such languid indecision as showed me he was over-fatigued. So I went my way. The morrow was blue and sunny, and beautiful; the very perfection of an early summer’s day. Mr Holdsworth was all impatience to be off into the country; morning had brought back his freshness and strength, and consequent eagerness to be doing. I was afraid we were going to my cousin’s farm rather too early, before they would expect us; but what could I do with such a restless vehement man as Holdsworth was that morning? We came down upon the Hope Farm before the dew was off the grass on the shady side of the lane; the great house-dog was loose, basking in the sun, near the closed side door. I was surprised at this door being shut, for all summer long it was open from morning to night; but it was only on latch. I opened it, Rover watching me with half-suspicious, half-trustful eyes. The room was empty. “I don’t know where they can be,” said I. “But come in and sit down while I go and look for them. You must be tired.” “Not I. This sweet balmy air is like a thousand tonics. Besides, this room is hot, and smells of those pungent wood-ashes. What are we to do?”