Sir John alighted from his horse and threw the reins over the garden gate, then he walked across the stockyard, and looked at the barn and the cowsheds, taking particular notice of the state of repair they were in. After awhile he returned to the dwelling-house and walked round it deliberately, looking carefully all the time at the roof and windows, but he did not attempt to go inside. David and Ralph watched him from the field, but neither attempted to go near him. "He'll come to us when he has anything to say," David said, with a little catch in his voice. Ralph noticed that his father trembled a good deal, and that he was pale even to the lips. The squire came hurrying across the fields at length, slapping his leg as he walked with his riding-crop. His face was hard and set, like a man who had braced himself to do an unpleasant task, and was determined to carry it through. Ralph watched his face narrowly as he drew near, but he got no hope or inspiration from it. The squire did not notice him, but addressed himself at once to David. "Good-morning, Penlogan!" he said. "I see you have got down all your corn." "Yes, sir, we cut neck on Saturday night." "And not a bad crop either, by the look of it." "No, sir, it's pretty middling. The farm is just beginning to show some fruit for all the labour and money that have been spent on it." "Exactly so. Labour and manure always tell in the end. You know, of course, that the lease has fallen in?" "I do, sir. It's hard on the parson at St. Goram, and it's harder lines on me." "Yes, it's rough on you both, I admit. But we can't be against these things. When the Almighty does a thing, no man can say nay." "I'm not so sure that the Almighty does a lot of those things that people say He does." "You're not?" "No, sir. I don't see that the parson's son had any call to go out to Egypt to shoot Arabs, particularly when he knew that my farm hung on his life." "He went at the call of duty," said the squire unctuously; "went to defend his Queen and country." "Don't believe it," said David doggedly. "Neither the Queen nor the country was in any danger. He went because he had a roving disposition and no stomach for useful ways." "Well, anyhow, he's dead," said the squire, "and naturally we are all sorry--sorry for his father particularly." "I suppose you are not sorry for me?" David questioned. "Well, yes; in some respects I am. The luck has gone against you, there's no denying, and one does not like to see a fellow down on his luck." "Then in that case I presume you do not intend to take advantage of my bad luck?" The squire raised his eyebrows, and his lip curled slightly. "I don't quite understand what you mean," he said. "Well, it's this way," David said mildly. "According to law this little farm is now yours." "Exactly." "But according to right it is not yours--it is mine." "Oh, indeed?"