For a period of weeks all went well between the young men, and their increasing intimacy argued ill for Anthony’s progress toward practical knowledge in agriculture. This Jonathan Daccombe understood, but held it no concern of his. It happened that the farmer came home one day just in time to see his son and his pupil departing from Cross Ways together. An expression of contempt touched with slight amusement lighted his grey face, and he turned to Jane Stanberry, who stood at the door. “Like the seed ’pon stony ground,” he said. “Comed up wi’ a fine blade an’ full o’ nature, then withered away, ’cause there wasn’t no good holding stuff behind. A farmer! However, there’s no call he should be. He’m here to learn to forget, not to farm.” “He is forgetting so fast as he can,” declared the girl. “He’s got nought to say nowadays ’bout the wickedness of women and such-like; an’ he went to church wi’ mother an’ me ’essterday to Postbridge, an’ singed the psalms an’ hymns wi’ a fine appetite, I’m sure. His voice be so deep as a cow when he uplifts it.” “I reckon he’m getting over his trouble too quick for my liking,” answered Mr. Daccombe. “My bird will be off some fine mornin’ when shooting be over and theer’s nought more for him to kill.” Meantime, while Jane spoke with admiration of Anthony’s good qualities, and Mrs. Daccombe heard her indignantly, young Maybridge himself was similarly angering another member of the Daccombe family. Now he stood with Dick upon the lofty crown of Higher White Tor, and watched a flock of golden plover newly come to their winter quarters from some northern home. They flew and cried at a great height above the marshes, wheeled and warped in the clear blue of a December sky; and when simultaneously they turned, there was a flash as of a hundred little stars, where the sunlight touched the plumage of their breasts and under-wings. But they were bound for a region beyond the range of the sportsmen who watched them; soon, indeed, the birds dwindled into dots, that made a great > upon the sky; and as they flew, they constantly renewed that figure. “Pity,” said Anthony. “Off to the middle of the Moor. Haven’t got a shot at a golden plover yet. Miss Jane’s favourite bird, too, so she says.” “No call for you to trouble about that. If she eats all I’ve shot for her, she’ll do very well.” “You’re a lucky devil, Dick.” “That’s as may be.” “Always the way with chaps like you, who never had anything to do but ask and get ‘yes’ for an answer. You don’t know when you’re well off in these parts.” Richard laughed without much merriment. “There’s so good fish in the sea as ever come out of it,” he said. “I’d not break my heart for any girl.” “A chap in love to say such a cold-blooded thing!” “We’re not all froth and splutter, like you.”