"Mr. Purdie," she said—with a sudden change of tone he did not fail to note, "what do you mean? I—I beg you to be a little more respectful in your language." "It’s the old story," said the factor, with affected resignation. "Ye may work and work, and do the best for your employers; and then some stranger is called in, new advice is taken, and all you have done is destroyed. And I wonder if the people will be any the better off. I wonder what change in their condeetion it will make—what permanent change, when once you stop putting your hand in your pocket. Improvements? Oh, yes, yes; improvements are all very fine. But I’m thinking that spending money on free libraries and the like o’ that will not help them much in getting in their crops." "As for that," she retorted—but with no displeasure, only a little quiet confidence, "I can merely say that I am trying to do my best, in a great many different ways; and the result, whatever it may be, is a long way off yet. And I live in hope. Of course, there is much more that I should like to do, and do at once; but I cannot; for I haven’t sufficient money. I don’t deny that there is a great deal still to be amended: I can’t work miracles. The people are very poor—and many of them not too industrious; the soil is bad; the fishing is uncertain; and communication difficult. I dare say there is even a good deal of wretchedness—or rather, what a stranger would regard as extreme wretchedness and misery; but all that cannot be changed in a moment, even if it turns out that it can be changed at all. And at least there is little sickness; the poorest cottages have the fresh air blowing around them—they’re better than the London slums, at all events. And one must just do what one can; and hope for the best." "I tell ye, ye are going entirely the wrong way to work wi’ these people, Miss Stanley," said he, as they were crossing the bridge and about to enter the village. "It’s my place to tell ye. It’s my bounden duty to tell ye. And I say they are just making sport wi’ ye. They are born beggars; work of any kind is an abomination to them; and you’ll find they’ll be like leeches—give, give always; and when you’ve ruined the estate on their behalf, what then?" "I don’t see any such prospect—not at present," said Mary, cheerfully. "Who is likely to know most about them, you or me?" he went on with dogged persistence. "Who has had most experience of them? Who has had dealings with them for years and years, and learned their tricks? A whining, cringing, useless set, cunning as the very mischief, and having not even an idea of what speaking the truth is. Plausible enough—oh, ay—plausible with a stranger—especially when they expect to get anything."