So saying, Woodruffe led the way to one of the ditches which, instead of fences, bounded his land; and, moving the mass of weeds with a stick, showed the water beneath, covered with a whitish bubbling scum, the smell of which was insufferable. “There is plenty of manure there,” said Woodruffe: “that is the only thing that can be said for it. We’ll make manure of it, and sweep out the ditch, and deepen it, and narrow it, and not use up so many feet of good ground for a ditch that does nothing but poison us. A fence is better than a ditch any day. I’ll have a fence, and still save ten feet of ground, the whole way down.” “There is a great deal to do here,” observed the wife. “And good reward when it is done,” Woodruffe replied. “If I can fall in with a stout labourer, he and Allan and I can get our spring crops prepared for; and I expect they will prove the goodness of the soil. There is Fleming. Supper is ready, I suppose.” The children were called, but both were so wet and dirty that it took twice as long as usual to make them fit to sit at table: and apologies were made for keeping supper waiting. The grave half-hour before Moss’s bedtime was occupied with the most solemn piece of instruction he had ever had in his life. His father carried him up to the railway, and made him understand the danger of playing there. He was never to play there. His father would go up with him once a day, and let him see a train pass: and this was the only time he was ever to mount the steps, except by express leave. Moss was put to bed in silence, with his father’s deep, grave voice sounding in his ears. “He will not forget it,” declared his father. “He will give us no trouble about the railway. The next thing is the pit. Allan, I expect you to see that he does not fall into the pit. In time, we shall teach him to take care of himself; but you must remember, meanwhile, that the pit is six feet deep—deeper than I am high: and that the edge is the same clay that you slipped on so often this morning.” “Yes, father,” said Allan, looking as grave as if power of life and death were in his hands. CHAPTER THE THIRD. One fine morning in the next spring, there was more stir and cheerfulness about the Woodruffes’ dwelling than there had been of late. The winter had been somewhat dreary; and now the spring was anxious; for Woodruffe’s business was not, as yet, doing very well. His hope, when he bought his pony and cart, was to dispatch by railway to the town the best of his produce, and sell the commoner part in the country neighbourhood, sending his cart round within the reach of a few miles. As it turned out, he had nothing yet to send to the town, and his agent there was vexed and displeased. No radishes, onions, early salads, or rhubarb were ready: and it would be sometime yet before they were.