Not a word of thanks; but perhaps—she generously thought—his English did not go so far. "It is good dry weather for ploughing, is it not?" she remarked at a venture. There was no reply. "That very old man," she asked, "who is he—is he your father?" "Yes." "It seems a pity he should be working at his age," she went on, wishing to show sympathy. "He ought to be sitting at the cottage door, smoking his pipe." "Every one will have to work," said the elderly crofter, in a morose sort of way; and then he looked at his horses. "Oh well," said Mary, blithely, "I hope to be able to make it a little easier for you all. This land, now, how much do you pay for it? What is your rent?" "It—thirty shillings an acre." "Thirty shillings an acre? That is too much," said she, without a moment’s hesitation. "Surely thirty shillings an acre is too much for indifferent land like that!" The small, suspicious eyes glanced at her furtively. "I not saying it too mich," he made answer, slowly. "Oh, but I will consult Mr. Purdie about it," said she, in her pleasantest way. "My own impression is that thirty shillings an acre is only asked for good land. But I will inquire; and see what can be done. Well, good morning!—I mustn’t take up your time." She was coming away when he looked after her. "I not saying—it—too mich rent," said he; and then he turned to his plough; and his laborious task was resumed. "Isn’t that odd?" said Mary, as they were going along the highway again. "None of them seem anxious to have their rents reduced. All day yesterday—not a single complaint!" "Well, Mamie," said Käthchen, "I don’t know; but I can guess at a reason—perhaps they are afraid to complain." This set Mary thinking; and they went on in silence. She wished she knew Gaelic.