David looked sadly at the little heap of sovereigns--all that was left out of the savings of a lifetime. He had spent a thousand pounds on the farm, and, in addition, had put in twelve years of the hardest work of his life, and this was all that was left. What he thought no one knew, not even his wife, for he kept his thoughts and his feelings to himself. The day before their departure, David took Ralph for a walk to the extreme end of the farm. "I have something to tell you, my boy, and something to show you." Ralph wondered what there was to see that he had not already seen, but he asked no questions. "You may remember, Ralph," David said, when they had got some distance from the house, "that I told you once that I had discovered a tin lode running across the farm?" "Yes, I remember well," Ralph answered, looking up with an interested light in his eyes. "I want to show it to you, my boy." "Why, what's the use?" Ralph questioned, after a momentary pause. "If it were a reef of gold it would be of no value to us." "Yes, that seems true enough now," David answered sadly, "but there's no knowing what may happen in the future." "I don't see how we can ever benefit by it, whatever may happen." "I am not thinking of myself, Ralph. My day's work is nearly over. But new conditions may arise, new discoveries may be made, and if you know, you may be able to sell your knowledge for something." Ralph shook his head dubiously, and for several minutes they tramped along side by side in silence. Then David spoke again. "It is farewell to-day, my boy. We shall toil in these fields no more." "That fact by itself does not trouble me," Ralph said. "You do not like farming," his father answered. "You never did; and sometimes I have felt sorry to keep you here, and yet I could not spare you. You have done the work of two, and you have done it for your bare keep." "I have done it for the squire," Ralph answered, with a cynical laugh. "Ah, well, it is over now, my boy, and we know the worst. In a few years nothing will matter, for we shall all be asleep." Ralph glanced suddenly at his father, but quickly withdrew his eyes. There was a look upon his face that hurt him--a look as of some hunted creature that was appealing piteously for life. For weeks past Ralph had wished that his father would get angry. If he would only storm and rave at fortune generally, and at the squire in particular, he believed that it would do him good. Such calm and quiet resignation did not seem natural or healthy. Ralph sometimes wondered if what his father predicted had come true--that the loss had broken his heart. They reached the outer edge of the farm at length, and David paused in the shadow of a tree. "Come here, my boy," he said. And Ralph went and stood by his side. "You see the parlour chimney?" David questioned. "Yes." "Well, now draw a straight line from this tree to the parlour chimney, and what do you strike?"