"I met him as he was walking into St. Goram, and he told me how they had taken a little cottage, and were going to move into it next day--that was yesterday. Then, of course, all the story came out, how the vicar's son was the last 'life' on their little farm, and how, when he died, the farm became the ground landlord's." "And what did he say about the ground landlord?" he questioned. "I don't remember his words very well, but he seemed most bitter, because he had let the farm over their heads, without giving them a chance of being tenants." "Well?" "I told him I thought it was a very cruel thing to do. Law is not everything. David Penlogan had put all his savings into the farm, had reclaimed the fields from the wilderness, and built the house with his own money, and the lord of the manor had done nothing, and never spent a penny-piece on it, and yet, because the chances of life had gone against David, he comes in and takes possession--demands, like Shylock, his pound of flesh, and actually turns the poor man out of house and home! I told Ralph Penlogan that it was wicked--at least, if I did not tell him, I felt it--and, I am sure, father, you must feel the same." Sir John laughed a short, hard laugh. "What is the use of the law, Dorothy," he said, "unless it is kept? It is no use getting sentimental because somebody is hanged." "But surely, father, our duty to our neighbour is not to get all we can out of him?" "I'm inclined to think that is the general practice, at any rate," he said, with a laugh. She looked at him almost reproachfully for a moment, and then her eyes fell. He was quick to see the look of pain that swept over her face, and hastened to reassure her. "You shouldn't worry yourself, Dorothy, about these matters," he said, in gentler tones. "You really shouldn't. You see, we can't help the world being what it is. Some are rich and some are poor. Some are weak and some are strong. Some have trouble all the way, and some have a good time of it from first to last, and nobody's to blame, as far as I know. If luck's fallen to our lot, we've all the more to be grateful for, don't you see. But the world's too big for us to mend, and it's no use trying. Now, run away, that's a good girl, and be happy as long as you can." She drew herself up to her full height, and looked him steadily in the eyes. She had grown taller during her illness, and there was now a look upon her face such as he had never noticed before. "I do wish, father," she said slowly, "that you would give over treating me as though I were a child, and had no mind of my own." "Tut, tut!" he said sharply. "What's the matter now?" "I mean what I say," she answered, in the same slow and measured fashion. "I may have been a child up to the time of my illness, but I have learned a lot since then. I feel like one who has awaked out of a sleep. My illness has given me time to think. I have got into a new world."