“Yes, but I’m leaving it presently.” “Ah, I remember! I’ve heard something about you. And where are you going to when you leave here?” “I don’t know yet, sir.” He looks at her as if measuring her from head to foot, and then says, with another smile: “Come to my country, girlie. We have some strapping young women out west, but we can do with a few more of the same sort, I guess.” Mona is startled. Obvious as the word is, it comes like an inspiration. America! “The melting-pot of the nations!” All the races of the world are there. They must live in peace together or life could not go on. When Oskar comes that night she tells him what the stranger has said, and his big, heavy, sleepless eyes become bright and excited. “Why not? Why shouldn’t we? That great free country! What a relief to leave all the d----d mess of this life in Europe behind us!” There is a difficulty, though. He has heard that America refuses to admit people who have been in prison. He has been four years in an internment camp--will America allow him to land? He must ask the chaplain. The following night Oskar comes back with a still brighter face. “It’s all right, Mona. Internment is not imprisonment in the eyes of American law.” But there is one other difficulty. America requires that every immigrant shall have something in his pocket to prevent him from becoming a burden on the new country. “It’s not much, but I have too little. If I had been a free man I should have earned four thousand pounds in the time I’ve been here, but when I leave the camp I shall only have fifty.” Mona is overjoyed--at length _she_ can do something. “That’s no difficulty at all, Oskar. The auction is to come off soon, and after I’ve paid what I owe I shall have enough for both of us.” It is the day before the auction, and Mona is gathering up the stock and bringing them down to the houses--the beasts she had put out on the grass, the “dry” cows that are stretched on their bellies chewing the cud, the sheep that are bleating, and the early lambs that are baa-ing. She is going up the mountain to fetch the young bull to which she has taken a bowl of wheat twice a week throughout the winter. A new wave of hope has come to her, a golden radiance is shining in the future, and she is singing to herself as she climbs through the heather. Suddenly, when she reaches the top of the hill, by the tower called “Corrin’s Folly,” she hears fierce animals snorting, and at the next moment sees that three bulls are fighting. One of them is her own young bull, small and lithe, the two others are old and large and black and have iron rings in their nostrils. She remembers the old ones. They belong to John Corlett, and must have leapt over the boundary to get at the young one, and are now goring it fearfully.