The farmer stopped at last before a silversmith's shop. He put the reins into Rhoda's hand, took a little wooden box from under his seat, and descended from the cart. For a few seconds his daughter was utterly bewildered. The stock of family plate was limited to a cream-jug and spoons. And even if they had made up their minds to part with those treasures, the proceeds would hardly have recompensed them for the sacrifice. Yet what could be the contents of the wooden box that her father had carried into the shop? The truth flashed upon Rhoda. He was disposing of Helen's jewels. He had obtained her husband's permission to sell them. He came out again with a sober face. The silversmith came too, rubbing his hands as if he were not ill satisfied with his bargain. He wished the farmer good day, and the mare jogged steadily back to Huntsdean. But Rhoda learnt, long afterwards, that the money for which the jewels were sold did not go to Mr. Elton. It went towards the maintenance of Helen's child. CHAPTER VIII. THE FARM PURCHASED BY ONE RALPH CHANNELL. Eight years passed away. In Huntsdean churchyard the grass had grown over Helen's grave, covering up the bare, brown earth, as new interests cover an old sorrow. Little Nelly had never realized her loss. It contented her to know that her mother had been laid to rest in a sweet place, and would rise again some day when the Lord called her. She always hoped that Helen might rise in the spring, and find the primroses blooming round her pretty grave. She might have fancied that, like Keats, her mother could "feel the flowers growing over her." Children and poets often have the same fancies. November had come again; and with it came a new anxiety. The small farm, rented by Farmer Farren, had passed into new hands. Squire Derrick was dead, and "another king arose, who knew not Joseph." The heir was a needy, grasping man. Old tenants were nothing to him, and he was in want of ready money. He had made up his mind to sell the little farm. It was more than likely, therefore, that the Farrens would be turned out of the old nest. For the young, it is easy to build new homes, and gather new associations around them; but for the old, it is well-nigh impossible. Their very lives are built into the ancient walls. When they leave a familiar dwelling, they long to go straight to "a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." John was now bailiff to a rich landowner in Sussex. He had a wife and child; but he was not unmindful of other ties. "Come to me," he wrote, "if you are turned out of the old place." But the parents sighed and shook their heads. They had not greatly prospered in Huntsdean, yet no other spot on earth could be so dear to them.