He had not seen Hillside for many a month until the day he went to interview William Jenkins. He knew it would cost him a pang, but he could not afford to wait on sentiment or emotion. And yet he hardly realised how deeply the place was enshrined in his heart until he stood knocking at the door of the house that was once his home. He was glad that nobody heard his first knock. He thought he had got beyond the reach of emotion, but it was not so. Suddenly, as a wave rises and breaks upon the shore, a flood of memory swept over him. He was back again in the dear dead past, with all the hopes of boyhood dancing before his eyes. He saw his father coming up the home-close with a smile upon his face, his mother in the garden gathering flowers with which to decorate the table. He could almost fancy he heard Ruth singing in the parlour as she bent over her sewing. Then the wave retreated, leaving him cold and numbed and breathless. It was his home no longer. He was standing, a stranger, at the door that once he opened by right. His eyes cleared at length, and he looked out across the fields that he had helped to reclaim from the waste. How familiar the landscape was! He knew every mound and curve, every bush and tree. Could it be possible that in one short year, and less, so much had happened? He pulled himself together after a few moments, and knocked at the door again. William Jenkins started and looked confused when he saw Ralph standing before him, for he had never been able to shake off an uneasy feeling that he had not done a kind and neighbourly thing when he took Hillside Farm over David Penlogan's head, even though Sir John's agent had pressed him to do so. Ralph plunged into the object of his visit after a kindly greeting. "I hear you are letting out your hay crop to be cut," he said, "and I came across to see if I could get the job." "I did not know you were out of work," Jenkins said uneasily. "I'm not," Ralph answered. "But I want to put in a little overtime these long days. Besides, you know I'm used to farm work." "But if you work only overtime it will take you a long time to get down the crop." "Oh, not so long. It's light till nearly ten o'clock. Besides, we're in for a spell of fine weather, and a day or two longer won't make any difference." "The usual price per acre, I suppose?" the farmer questioned, after a pause. "Well, I presume nobody would be inclined to take less," Ralph said, with a laugh. The farmer dived his hands into his pockets, contemplated the evening sky for several minutes, took two or three long strides down the garden path and back again, cleared his throat once or twice, and then he said-- "Will waant yer money, 'spose, when the job's done?" "Unless you prefer to pay in advance." The farmer grinned, and dug a hole into the ground with his heel. "There ain't too much money to be made out of this place, I'm thinkin'," he said at length.