Then the old man, a gossip, took up one of Meadows' books. “Australia! ah!” grunted Merton, and dropped it like a hot potato; he tried another, “Why, this is Australia, too; why, they are all Australia, as I am a living sinner.” And he looked with a rueful curiosity into Meadows' face. Meadows colored, but soon recovered his external composure. “I have friends there,” said he hastily, “who tell me there are capital investments in that country, and they say no more than the truth.” “Do you think he will do any good out there?” asked the old man, lowering his voice. “I can't say,” answered Meadows dryly. “Tell us something about that country, John,” said Merton; “and if you was to ask me to take a glass of your home-brewed ale I don't think I should gainsay you.” The ale was sent for, and over it Meadows, whose powers of acquisition extended to facts as well as money, and who was full of this new subject, poured the agricultural contents of a dozen volumes into Mr. Merton. The old farmer sat open-mouthed, transfixed with interest, listening to his friend's clear, intelligent and masterly descriptions of this wonderful land. At last the clock struck nine; he started up in astonishment. “I shall get a scolding if I stay later,” said he, and off he went to Grassmere. “Have you nothing else to say to me?” asked Meadows, as the farmer put his foot in the stirrup. “Not that I know of,” replied the other, and cantered away. “Confound him!” muttered Meadows; “he comes and stops here three hours, drinks my ale, gets my knowledge without the trouble of digging for't, and goes away, and not a word from Susan, or even a word about her--one word would have paid me for all this loss of time--but no, I was not to have it. I will be in Devonshire this time to-morrow--no, to-morrow is market day--but the day after I will go. I cannot live here and not see her, nor speak to her--'twill drive me mad.” The next morning, as Meadows mounted his horse to ride to market, a carter's boy came up to him, and taking off his hat and pulling his head down by the front lock by way of salute, put a note into his hand. Meadows took it and opened it carelessly; it was a handwriting he did not know. But his eye had no sooner glanced at the signature than his eyes gleamed and his whole frame trembled with emotion he could hardly hide. This was the letter: “DEAR MR. MEADOWS--We have not seen you here a long time, and if you could take a cup of tea with us on your way home from market, my father would be glad to see you, if it is not troubling you too much. “I believe he has some calves he wishes to show you. “I am, yours respectfully, “SUSAN MERTON. “P. S.--Father has been confined by rheumatism, and I have not been well this last month.”