Gilmore and Fenwick walked down to the mill together, it being understood that the Squire was not to show himself there. Fenwick's difficult task, if it were to be done at all, must be done by himself alone. He must beard the lion in his den, and make the attack without any assistant. Gilmore had upon the whole been disposed to think that no such attack should be made. "He'll only turn upon you with violence, and no good will be done," said he. "He can't eat me," Fenwick had replied, acknowledging, however, that he approached the undertaking with fear and trembling. Before they were far from the house Gilmore had changed the conversation and fallen back upon his own sorrows. He had not answered Mary's letter, and now declared that he did not intend to do so. What could he say to her? He could not write and profess friendship; he could not offer her his congratulations; he could not belie his heart by affecting indifference. She had thrown him over, and now he knew it. Of what use would it be to write to her and tell her that she had made him miserable for ever? "I shall break up the house and get away," said he. "Don't do that rashly, Harry. There can be no spot in the world in which you can be so useful as you are here." "All my usefulness has been dragged out of me. I don't care about the place or about the people. I am ill already, and shall become worse. I think I will go abroad for four or five years. I've an idea I shall go to the States." "You'll become tired of that, I should think." "Of course I shall. Everything is tiresome to me. I don't think anything else can be so tiresome as my uncle, and yet I dread his leaving me,--when I shall be alone. I suppose if one was out among the Rocky Mountains, one wouldn't think so much about it." "Atra Cura sits behind the horseman," said the Vicar. "I don't know that travelling will do it. One thing certainly will do it." "And what is that?" "Hard work. Some doctor told his patient that if he'd live on half-a-crown a day and earn it, he'd soon be well. I'm sure that the same prescription holds good for all maladies of the mind. You can't earn the half-crown a day, but you may work as hard as though you did." "What shall I do?" "Read, dig, shoot, look after the farm, and say your prayers. Don't allow yourself time for thinking." "It's a fine philosophy," said Gilmore, "but I don't think any man ever made himself happy by it. I'll leave you now." "I'd go and dig, if I were you," said the Vicar. "Perhaps I will. Do you know, I've half an idea that I'll go to Loring." "What good will that do?" "I'll find out whether this man is a blackguard. I believe he is. My uncle knows something about his father, and says that a bigger scamp never lived." "I don't see what good you can do, Harry," said the Vicar. And so they parted.