"They have been here upwards of two years," Mr. Mitford replied; "but the place is not likely to improve were they to be here another ten. They are a thriftless lazy lot, content to raise just sufficient for their actual wants and to pay for whisky. These are the sort of people who bring discredit on the colony by writing home declaring that there is no getting on here, and that a settler's life is worse than a dog's. "People who come out with an idea that a colony is an easy place to get a living in are completely mistaken. For a man to succeed he must work harder and live harder here than he would do at home. He is up with the sun, and works until it is too dark to work longer. If he employs men he must himself set an example to them. Men will work here for a master who works himself, but one who thinks that he has only to pay his hands and can spend his time in riding about the country making visits, or in sitting quietly by his fire, will find that his hands will soon be as lazy as he is himself. Then the living here is rougher than it is at home for one in the same condition of life. The fare is necessarily monotonous. In hot weather meat will not keep more than a day or two, and a settler cannot afford to kill a sheep every day; therefore he has to depend either upon bacon or tinned meat, and I can tell you that a continuance of such fare palls upon the appetite, and one's meals cease to be a pleasure. But the curse of the country, as of all our colonies, is whisky. I do think the monotony of the food has something to do with it, and that if men could but get greater variety in their fare they would not have the same craving for drink. It is the ruin of thousands. A young fellow who lands here and determines to work hard and to abstain from liquors--I do not mean totally abstain, though if he has any inclination at all towards drink the only safety is total abstinence--is sure to get on and make his way, while the man who gives way to drink is equally certain to remain at the bottom of the tree. Now we are just passing the boundary of the holding you have come to see. You see that piece of bark slashed off the trunk of that tree? That is what we call a blaze, and marks the line of the boundary." After riding a few minutes further the trees opened, and they found themselves in a glade sloping down to the river. A few acres of land had been ploughed up and put under cultivation. Close by stood the hut, and beyond a grassy sward, broken by a few large trees, stretched down to the river. "That's the place," Mr. Mitford said, "and a very pretty one it is. Poor young Langston chose his farm specially for that bit of scenery." "It is pretty," Wilfrid agreed; "I am sure my father and mother will be delighted with it. As you said, it is just like a piece of park land at home."