‘Prime stuff!’ he muttered to himself. ‘That be real old hay in the corner, and this here wheat-rick—there’s a goodish lot o’ money in that or I’m much mistaken. Here be another, half thrashed—ah, fine stuff. ’T is a pity the poor old master did n’t live to see the end o’ that job—though if the money were n’t a-goin’ into his own pocket he wouldn’t ha’ been much the better for ’t.’ He was wandering round the rick in question, gazing at it from every point, and even thrusting his hands upwards into the loosened sheaves of that portion which had been unroofed and partially thrashed, when a sudden rustle close to him made him start. Lo! perched high upon the ledge of the half-demolished stack a figure was standing, knee-deep among the roughly piled-up sheaves, the tall and shapely figure of a young girl. She was dressed in black, and from under the wide sombre brim of her straw hat a pair of blue eyes looked down fiercely at the farmer. The face in which they were set was oval in shape, and at that moment very pale; the lips were parted, showing a gleam of white teeth. ‘Why, my dear,’ said Fiander, stepping a little further away from the stack and gazing up at her in mild astonishment—‘why, whatever might you be doin’ up there? You did gi’ me quite a start, I do assure ye.’ ‘I’m looking at something I don’t like to see,’ returned the girl in a choked voice; and her bosom heaved with a quick angry sob. ‘Ah!’ said the other tentatively. Setting his hat a little further back on his head and wrinkling up his eyes he examined her more closely. The black dress, the wrathful, miserable face told their own tale. ‘I do ’low ye be somebody belongin’ to the poor old master?’ he continued respectfully. She sobbed again for all response. ‘Ah!’ said Fiander again, with a world of sympathy in his blue eyes, ‘’t is a melancholy sight for ye, sure. You’re Mr. Stelling’s daughter very like.’ ‘Granddaughter,’ corrected the girl. ‘Dear heart alive, ’t is sad—’t is very sad for ye, miss, but I’m sure I’d never keep a-standin’ on the stack frettin’ yourself so, I would n’t, truly. ’T is a very sad business altogether, Miss Stelling, but you’ll be upsettin’ yourself worse if ye bide here.’ The girl stepped across the sheaves and drew near the edge of the stack. Fiander stretched out his hand to assist her down. ‘That’s it,’ he remarked encouragingly; ‘I’m main glad to see you are so sensible and ready to take advice, Miss Stelling. Here, let me help ye down.’ ‘No, thank you,’ she replied, ‘and my name is n’t Stelling!’ Stooping, and supporting herself with one hand against the edge of the ledge, she swung herself gracefully down, her hat dropping off as she did so; the face thus exposed to view proved even younger than Fiander had anticipated, and, were he a more impressionable man, he might well have been startled at its beauty.