"Well, if you could get away from here for a time, and see other people, how they do things, how they make a little money go a long way, and a little land go still farther, how they work hard, and fail many times, and succeed in the end--not the science of farming that Thomas is going to learn, but the accomplished fact--I believe it would be the making of you. My Uncle Mat was one of the first importers of Holstein cattle in this country, and I'd like to have you do just what he did when he got through college. Of course, you can buy all the cows you want in the United States now, of every kind, sort, and description, and just as good as there are anywhere in the world; but I want you to go to Europe, nevertheless. Start right off while Thomas is still at home to help your father; take a steamer that goes direct to Holland; get into the interior with an interpreter. Then cross over to the Channel Islands. By that time you'll be in a position to decide whether you want to stock your farm with Holsteins, which have the strongest constitutions and give the most milk, or Jerseys, which give the richest. While you're over there, go to Paris and London for a few days--and see something besides cows. Come home by Liverpool. I know the United States Minister to the Netherlands very well, and no end of people in Paris. I'll give you some letters of introduction, and you'll have a good time besides getting a practical education. The whole trip needn't take you more than eight weeks. Then next spring visit a few of the big farms in New York and the Middle West, and go to one of those big cattle auctions they hold in Syracuse in July. Then--" "For Heaven's sake, Sylvia! Where did you pick up all this information about farming?" "From Uncle Mat--but I'll tell you all about that some other time. The question is now, 'Will you go?'" "God bless you, _yes_!" "That's settled, then," she cried happily. "I was fairly trembling with fear that you'd refuse. Why _is_ it so hard for you to accept things?" "I don't know. I've been bitter all my life because I've had to go without so much, and this summer I've been equally bitter because things were changing. It must be just natural cussedness--but I'm honestly going to try to do better." "We've got to stay here until morning, haven't we?" "I'm afraid we have. You can't walk, and even if you could, the chances are ten to one against our finding the highroad in this Egyptian darkness! When the sun comes up, I can pick my own way along through the underbrush all right, and carry you at the same time. You must weigh about ninety pounds." "I weigh one hundred and ten! The idea!--There's really no chance, then, of our moving for several hours?" "I'm sorry--but you must see there is not. Does it seem as if you couldn't bear being so dreadfully uncomfortable that much longer?" "Not in the least. I'm all right. But--" "Do you mind being here--alone with me?"