Reuben did not answer; she knew by his attitude--chin in hand--that he was thinking. That night he thought it out. Munds of Starvecrow had had a brother who fiddled at fairs and weddings and earned, so Munds said, thirty pounds a year. He had also heard of others who made as good a thing of it. If Harry earned thirty pounds a year he would pay the wages of an extra farm-hand and also something towards his own keep. They must find out exactly how many of the old tunes he remembered, and get somebody musical to teach him new ones. The idea prospered in Reuben's thoughts that night. The next morning he was full of it, and confided it to his mother and Naomi. Naomi, a little paler and more wistful than of old, still spent an occasional day or two at Odiam. At first she had made these visits for Harry's sake, flattering herself that he was the better for her presence; then when even her faith began to fail, she still came, partly to help Mrs. Backfield, partly driven by such feelings as might drive an uneasy ghost to haunt the house of his tragedy. Reuben saw little of her, for his work claimed him, but he liked to feel she was there, helping his mother with work which it was difficult for her to carry through alone to Odiam's best advantage. She heard of Reuben's plan with some shrinking. "He--he wouldn't like it," she stammered after a pause. "You'll never go sending our Harry to fiddle at fairs," said Mrs. Backfield. "Why not? There's naun shameful in it. Munds's brother did it for twenty years. And think of the difference it'll mäake to us--thirty pound or so a year, instead of the dead loss of Harry's keep and the wages of an extra man beside. I tell you, mother, I wur fair sick about the farm till I thought of this." "It's always the farm wud you, Reuben. You might sometimes think of your own kin." "I tell you Harry wöan't mind--he'll like it. It'll be something to occupy him. Besides, hem it all, mother! you can't expect me to kip him idling here, wud the farm scarce started yet, and nearly the whole of Boarzell still to buy." But it was useless to expect either Mrs. Backfield or Naomi to appreciate the momentousness of his task. Were women always, he wondered, without ambition? However, though they did not sympathise, they would not oppose him--Naomi because she was not skilful at opposition, his mother because he was gradually taking the place of Harry in her heart. He had more trouble when a day or so later he asked Naomi to inspect Harry's musical equipment. "You see, I döan't know one tune from another, so I can't do it myself. You might git him to play one or two things over to you, Naomi, and find out what he remembers." "I'd rather not," said Naomi, shuddering. "Why?" "Oh--I just can't." "But why?"