“Circumstances alter cases. Your father is dead and so is his son....” “But his daughter is alive, and what has she done....” “Don’t ask me what she’s done, miss.” “But I do, sir, I do.” “Then if you must have it, you must. I want a good man of my own race to farm my land, not an enemy alien.” Mona is speechless for one moment, choking with anger; at the next she is back on the road, weeping bitterly. Oskar is in the avenue when she returns to it, and seeing she is in trouble he speaks to her. She tells him what has happened, omitting what was said about himself. “Your family have lived in Knockaloe for generations, haven’t they?” he says. “Four generations.” “And you were born there, weren’t you?” “Yes.” “It’s a shame--a damned shame.” Mona is crushed. Knockaloe is lost to her. And this is the peace she has prayed and prayed for! One day passes, then another. Every morning Mona sees a fresh batch of prisoners leaving the camp, and her heart sinks at the sight of them. Oskar’s turn will come some day. It tears her to pieces to think of it--Oskar going off at that melancholy pace, down the avenue and round by Kirk Patrick. At length a spirit of defiance takes possession of her. Knockaloe is dear to her by a thousand memories, but it is not the only place on the island. She has heard of a farm in the north that is to be let in November. It is large, therefore it is not everybody who can stock it, but _she_ can, because she has always thought it her duty to put everything she has earned during the war into cattle to meet the requirements of the camp. She is upstairs in her bedroom, making ready for a visit to the northern landlord, when she hears the loud clatter of hoofs in the avenue. Long John Corlett, who used to come courting her for the sake of the stock, is riding a heavy cart-horse up to the house. He sees her and, without troubling to dismount, he calls to her to come down. Resenting his impudence, she makes him wait, but at length she goes out to him. “Well, what is it, John Corlett?” “You’ll have heard, my girl, that I’m the new tenant of Knockaloe?” “I haven’t; but if you are, what of it?” “I’ve come to ask you how long you want to stay.” “Until the lease runs out--what else do you expect, sir?” “But why should you? The camp will be empty before that time comes, and what can you do with your milk when the men are gone?” “I can do what I did before they came, if you want to know.” “Oh, no, you can’t. You’ve lost your milk run, and you can never get it back again.” “Who says I can’t?” “I say so. Everybody says so. Ask anybody you like, woman--any of your old customers.” Mona is colouring up to the eyes. “Then tell them I don’t care if I never can,” she says, and turns back to the house. “Wait! There’s something else, though. What about the dilapidations?” “Dilapidations?”