“It’s Bluecaster property,” Harriet explained, “though I mean to buy it in the long run, if I can get his lordship to let me have it, and if Lanty doesn’t want too thieving a price. When my grandfather died, we had to turn out of the old place, and I took Wild Duck on the money he left me, though everybody said I’d have had enough in a year. But I haven’t; and I wouldn’t go back, not if I was paid! I’m sticking to the farm all right, so I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere as long as I’m over sod.” Wiggie went a little further, looking sadder than ever. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean--I’m sorry we can’t both have it.” And as he vanished under the hedge, the wistful voice finished its speech-- “I believe I could get well here. I’m sorry.” A surprising touch of concern startled Harriet as she heard him, prompting her to call him back to the rocker and the kitten; but she shook it off with impatient disgust. He suffered from nerves--anybody could see that. He lived too much in stuffy rooms and microbe-ridden railway-carriages, and ate all the poisonous messes they give you in towns. It was doubtful, indeed, whether he got enough to eat at all. His clothes looked prosperous, but he was as thin as a match; you could hardly see him sideways. These artist-people had to make a show, so probably he economised in food. No doubt he smoked excessively to make up for it--that was why he coughed and always looked tired. He was thoroughly under condition altogether, out of training and in a bad way generally. What he wanted was a stiff walk and a run with the bassets and ten miles or so on a push-bike; new milk, good butcher’s meat, and one pipe a week--poor, weedy rotter! Harriet drew up her own splendidly-working collection of organisms, and went within to swing dumb-bells. And all the way home the voice repeated--as if it simply couldn’t get away from it: “I believe I could get well there. I _do_ believe I could! I’m very sorry.”