“It so happens that I know he would not; for he and my father had a dispute on that very point, and I heard them. He said poor people were not to go hungry that he might get rich. He was not sent into the world to make money, he said, but to grow corn. The corn was grown, and he could get enough for it now to live by, and had no right, and no desire to get more--and would not keep it up! The land was God's, not his, and the poor were God's children, and had their rights from him! He was sent to grow corn for them!” “And what did your father say to that wisdom?” “That is no matter. Nor do I profess to understand Mr. Ingram. I only know,” added Alexa, with a little laugh, “that he is consistent, for he has puzzled me all my life. I can, however, see a certain nobility in him that sets him apart from other men!” “And I can see that when I left I was needlessly modest! I thought _my_ position too humble!” “What am I to understand by that?” “What you think I mean.” “I wish you a good-afternoon, Mr. Crawford!” Alexa rose and left him. George had indeed grown coarser! He turned where he stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked after her; then smiled to himself a nasty smile, and said: “At least I have made her angry, and that's something! What has a fellow like that to give her? Poet, indeed! What's that! He's not even the rustic gentleman! He's downright vulgar!--a clod-hopper born and bred! But the lease, I understand, will soon be out, and Potlurg will never let _him_ have it! _I_ will see to that! The laird hates the canting scoundrel! I would rather pay him double the rent myself!”