“I am sure I have done everything I could,” said Woodruffe to Fleming, as they both lent a hand to put the pony into the cart. “Nobody can say that I have not made drains enough, or that they are not deep enough; yet the frost has taken such a hold that one would think we were living in the north of Scotland, instead of in Staffordshire.” “It has not been a severe season either,” observed Fleming. “There’s the vexation,” replied Woodruffe. “If it had been a season which set us at defiance, and made all sufferers alike, one must just submit to a loss, and go on again, like one’s neighbours. But, you see, I am cut out, as my agent says, from the market. Everybody else has spring vegetables there, as usual. It is no use telling him that I never failed before. But I know what it is. It is yonder great ditch that does the mischief.” “Why, we have nothing to do with that.” “That is the very reason. If it was mine or yours, do you think I should not have taken it in hand long ago? All my draining goes for little while that shallow ditch keeps my ground a continual sop. It is all uneven along the bottom;—not the same depth for three feet together anywhere, and not deep enough by two feet in any part. So there it is, choked up and putrid; and, after an hour or two of rain, my garden gets such a soaking, that the next frost is destruction.” “I will speak about it again,” said Fleming. “We must have it set right before next winter.” “I think we have seen enough of the uselessness of speaking,” replied Woodruffe, gloomily. “If we tease the gentry any more, they may punish you for it. I would show them my mind by being off,—throwing up my bargain at all costs, if I had not put so much into the ground that I have nothing left to move away with.” “Don’t be afraid for me,” said Fleming, cheerfully, “It was chiefly my doing that you came here, and I must try my utmost to obtain fair conditions for you. We must remember that the benefit of your outlay has all to come.” “Yes; I can’t say we have got much of it yet.” “By next winter,” continued Fleming, “your privet hedges and screens will have grown up into some use against the frost; and your own drainage——. Come, come, Allan, my boy! be off! It is getting late.” Allan seemed to be idling, re-arranging his bunches of small radishes, and little bundles of rhubarb, in their clean baskets, and improving the stick with which he was to drive: but he pleaded that he was waiting for Moss, and for the parcel which his mother was getting ready for Becky.