"Oh no. I think father and mother wander through the orchard and across the fields still, and I should feel nearer to them there; and I'm sure it would make heaven a better place for them if they knew we were back in the old home." "Ah, well," he said, with a sigh, "that is a dream we cannot indulge in. Sir John Liskeard asked me why I did not buy it." "And what did you say to him?" "What could I say, Ruth, except that I could just as easily buy the moon?" "Would the freehold cost so much?" "As the moon?" "No, no, I don't mean that, you silly boy; but is land so very, very dear?" "Compared with land in or near big towns or cities, it is very, very cheap." "But I mean it would take a lot of money to buy Hillside?" "You and I would think it a lot." And then the sound of footsteps was heard outside, followed a moment later by a timid knock at the door. "I wonder who it can be?" Ruth said, starting to her feet. "I'm glad you are at home, or I should feel quite nervous." "Do you think burglars would knock at the front door and ask if they might come in?" he questioned, with a laugh. Ruth did not reply, but went at once to the door and opened it, much wondering who their visitor could be, for it was very rarely anyone called at so late an hour. It had grown quite dark outside, so that she could only see the outline of two tall figures standing in the garden path. She was quickly reassured by a familiar voice saying-- "Is your brother at home, Miss Penlogan?" And then for some reason the hot blood rushed in a torrent to her neck and face. CHAPTER XXVIII A TRYING POSITION William Menire was troubled about two things--troubles rarely come singly. The first trouble arose a week or two previously out of a request preferred by a cousin of his, a young farmer from a neighbouring parish, who wanted an introduction to Ruth Penlogan. Sam Tremail was a good-looking young fellow of irreproachable character. Moreover, he was well-to-do, his father and mother having retired and left a large farm on his hands. He stood nearly six feet in his boots, had never known a day's illness in his life, was only twenty-six years of age, lived in a capital house, and only wanted a good wife to make him the happiest man on earth. Yet for some reason there was not a girl in his own parish that quite took his fancy. Not that there was any lack of eligible young ladies; not that he had set his heart on either beauty or fortune. Disdainful and disappointed mothers who had daughters to spare said that he was proud and stuck-up--that they did not know what the young men of the present day were coming to, and that Sam Tremail deserved to catch a tartar.