“I am afraid your men will not take the trouble to do the work, even though you give the time and material.” “I think they will,” said John, quietly. “Indeed, I am sure of it; and this is another prophecy for you to remember, Tom. Are you not coming into the house? How tired you look!” Tom answered hastily: “No, we cannot call; we saw Mr. Hunter as we passed, and father will be expecting us.” “Tom is not well,” said Edith; “she is always tired now; she has lost her appetite, and she does not sleep. I want father to let us go away for a change——” “Do not be stupid, Edith,” interrupted Tom, irritably; “I am all right, and where could we find purer air and more bracing breezes than on our own farm? The sea? Oh, it is not half as good as this! Besides, think of the poor wretches in London being baked and boiled in stifling streets and rooms! Good-bye, John, and a good harvest to you.” “Tom,” he said, “the poor people in London will not be any cooler because you deny yourself sea-breezes.” But Tom only lifted her hat in her most gentlemanly fashion, and rode away with a smile on her lips that quivered with pain the next moment. John was very fond of his cousin, and was really troubled at the change which he saw in her appearance, and which he felt also, though he could not define it. He would probably have ridden after her, but that his mind was turning in another direction than that of Hornby Hall, for he knew that Margaret Miller was at Scourby, and, guessing that she would walk home in the evening, he was resolved at all hazards to meet her.