A gate opened upon the path, and in the red-gold light of evening a man approached them. The ruddy earth had dyed his garments to its rich hue, had soaked into his clothes and body. He seemed incarnate clay. His frame had crooked, his hair was grizzled. His mouth was like the stamp of a gouge upon putty, and at first glance a grin appeared to sit upon his face; but, better seen, one noted that the distortion was accidental, and that in reality his features were stamped with the eternal sadness of suffering. "Three barrow pigs be just drownded," he said. "I seed 'em fighting in the water; then they went down an' comed up again, an' squeaked proper till the river chucked 'em. 'Tis always what I said would happen." "Where was Bob?" asked Grace, with much concern. "The blame will fall upon him." "So it will, but that won't bring the pigs alive again; though they'll do very well for common people to eat if we can get 'em ashore inside twenty-four hours." The sound of a horse's hoofs broke upon the silence that followed this bad news. Then Maurice Malherb appeared, dismounted, kissed his wife and daughter, and nodded to the servant. "All goes forward most prosperously," he said. "Since I promised the foreman ten pounds if the chimney-pots were on by Christmas, the place grows like honeycomb in June." "Why, 'twas to be finished by then in any case, according to contract, my dear!" "True; but you know what these people are." "You be one as would pay for honesty an' make it marketable, 'Tis a wrong way, an' don't do the world no good," grumbled Kekewich. "We must oil the wheels of progress, Kek," said his master. "I want to begin. I want to fight next winter up there." "Best way to fight Dartmoor winters be to flee from 'em," answered the old man. "Nay, nay--that's a coward's policy. I'm going to do things on Dartmoor that never have been done yet. I've not farmed here all these years for nothing." "No, by Gor! you've not." Annabel Malherb and Grace now turned homeward, and the farmer walked slowly beside Kekewich. "Up aloft they make a great many mistakes. I mean the folk of the Moor. But to see error is to avoid it with a man of sense. And I've let the people find out already that they will have a powerful friend in me. I learn from them what to do, as well as what not to do. We shall want all kinds to help us. I believe in a big staff on a farm--especially a grazing farm. The old, the strong, the young--light work for the men that are three score and ten, and worn with a life of labour, though useful yet. And none shall have tail corn, as too often happens up there, for who can do man's work on pig's food? And my cider shall be cider, as it always has been--not the vinegar they call cider on Dartmoor." "'Ess--you'll make the place a hospital for them past work--same as this be."