And one day, nearly two months after his visit to the bank—in the meantime he had been twice into town at the Bench—he was riding on the land with Fewtrell at his stirrup, when the bailiff told him that there was a stranger in the field. “Which field?” he asked. “Where they ha’ just lifted the turnips,” the man said. “Oh!” said the Squire. “Who is it? What’s he doing there?” “Well, I’m thinking,” said Fewtrell, “as it’s the young gent I’ve seen here more ’n once. Same as asked me one day why we didn’t drill ’em in wider.” “The devil, he did!” the Squire exclaimed, kicking up the old mare, who was leaning over sleepily. “Called ’em Radicals,” said Fewtrell, grinning. “Them there Radical Swedes,” says he. “Dunno what he meant. ‘If you plant Radicals, best plant ’em Radical fashion,’ says he.” “Devil he did!” repeated the Squire. “Said that, did he?” “Ay, to be sure. He used to come across with a gun field-way from Acherley; oh, as much as once a week I’d see him. And he’d know every crop as we put in, a’most same as I did. Very spry he was about it, I’ll say that.” “Is it the banker’s son?” asked the Squire on a sudden suspicion. “Well, I think he be,” Fewtrell answered, shading his eyes. “He be going up to the house now.” “Well, you can take me in,” to the groom. “I’ll go by the gap.” The groom demurred timidly; the grey might leap at the gap. But the Squire was obstinate, and the old mare, who knew he was blind as well as any man upon the place, and knew, too, when she could indulge in a frolic and when not, bore, him out delicately, stepping over the thorn-stubs as if she walked on eggs. He was at the door in the act of dismounting when Clement appeared. “D’you want me?” the old man asked bluntly.’ “If you please, sir,” Clement answered. He had walked all the way from Aldersbury, having much to think of and one question which lay heavy on his mind. That was—how would it be with him when he walked back? “Then come in.” And feeling for the door-post with his hand, the Squire entered the house and turned with the certainty of long practice into the dining-room. He walked to the table as firmly as if he could see, and touching it with one hand he drew up with the other his chair. He sat down. “You’d best sit,” he said grudgingly. “I can’t see, but you can. Find a chair.” “My father has sent me with the money,” Clement explained. “I have a cheque here and the necessary papers. He would have come himself, sir, to renew his thanks for aid as timely as it was generous and—and necessary. But”—Clement boggled a little over the considered phrase, he was nervous and his voice betrayed it—“he thought—I was to say——” “It’s all there?” “Yes, sir, principal and interest.” “Have you drawn a receipt?” “Yes, sir, I’ve brought one with me. But if you would prefer that it should be paid to Mr. Welsh—my father thought that that might be so?” “Umph! All there, is it?” “Yes, sir.”