A stranger wandering about the quiet, peaceful, happy-looking country of which we speak in the opening of this chapter, would assuredly not have looked for the expression of such worldly views by the mistress of that comfortable-looking house amongst the trees. The thought passed over the farmer’s mind, but so lightly that he did not attempt to give expression to it, though his reply bordered slightly upon it. “And what do you call position, Sarah? Has it anything to do with happiness?” asked Luke. “Position! Why, to be above other people. To be looked up to instead of being looked down upon. To have servants of one’s own, and not be servants ourselves.” “That is, your husband should be something more than a farm-bailiff, or a farmer even on his own account. The old story; it’s no use, Sarah, we can’t alter our lot. It seems to me that a clear conscience, and owing nobody a penny, is about the best position in the world, after all, whatever your station in life.” “I know that is your opinion, Luke, and there’s something in it, for those who like to jog through the world and be nothing to nobody. We have money now, and why can’t we have a farm of our own, at least?” “Oh, we’ve had enough of farming on our own account, Sarah. These are not the days for farmers with small incomes. It doesn’t suit me to be peddling about in the old style of farming. I have gone in for the science of the thing, and I must have the best machinery to work with; and you want a big holding for that and lots of capital besides. We are much better off as it is. Mr. Tallant is rich, and, although he gets now a fair return for his money, he’s sunk a lot in this estate.” “And what for? That young Tallant will soon get through it all.” “Stop until he inherits.” “Ah, there will be changes here whenever the old man goes. Whatever will become of Phœbe? I shall take it upon myself to speak to him about that young lady.” “I should think you’ll do nothing of the sort.” “Why not? I say it is a burning shame to keep her mewed up here. She would pick up a duke, at least, in London; and, as sure as fate, that little painter fellow will get her if she stays at Barton much longer.” “You seem to be quite insane upon this subject, Sarah.” “Oh yes, of course. Everything that _you_ can’t see through is absurd; it always was so, Luke. When you have got as far as the end of your nose there is an end to your prospect, unless you are thinking about what crop should follow wheat or barley.” “Now, then; get into a passion. You said you would talk quietly if I would stay.” “I am not in a passion--nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. S., knitting at double-quick speed. “Very well, then, mind you don’t get into a passion,” said Luke, smiling. “Phœbe Tallant was made to shine in society, and to marry well; and it is horrible to see wealth and power going out of a young girl’s grasp just because nobody puts her anywhere near the prize.”