“I am inclined to agree with you,” I interrupted him. “I would rather see Dick a good farmer than a third-rate barrister, anyhow. He thinks he could take an interest in farming. There are ten weeks before he need go back to Cambridge, sufficient time for the experiment. Will you take him as a pupil?” St. Leonard grasped his head between his hands and held it firmly. “If I consent,” he said, “I must insist on being honest.” I saw the woefulness again in Janie’s eyes. “I think,” I said, “it is my turn to be honest. I have got the donkey for nothing; I insist on paying for Dick. They are waiting for you in the rick-yard. I will settle the terms with Miss Janie.” He regarded us both suspiciously. “I will promise to be honest,” laughed Miss Janie. “If it’s more than I’m worth,” he said, “I’ll send him home again. My theory is—” He stumbled over a pig which, according to the time-table, ought not to have been there. They went off hurriedly together, the pig leading, both screaming. Miss Janie said she would show me the short cut across the fields; we could talk as we went. We walked in silence for awhile. “You must not think,” she said, “I like being the one to do all the haggling. I feel a little sore about it very often. But somebody, of course, must do it; and as for father, poor dear—” I looked at her. Her’s is the beauty to which a touch of sadness adds a charm. “How old are you?” I asked her. “Twenty,” she answered, “next birthday.” “I judged you to be older,” I said. “Most people do,” she answered. “My daughter Robina,” I said, “is just the same age—according to years; and Dick is twenty-one. I hope you will be friends with them. They have got sense, both of them. It comes out every now and again and surprises you. Veronica, I think, is nine. I am not sure how Veronica is going to turn out. Sometimes things happen that make us think she has a beautiful character, and then for quite long periods she seems to lose it altogether. The Little Mother—I don’t know why we always call her Little Mother—will not join us till things are more ship-shape. She does not like to be thought an invalid, and if we have her about anywhere near work that has to be done, and are not always watching her, she gets at it and tires herself.” “I am glad we are going to be neighbours,” said Miss Janie. “There are ten of us altogether. Father, I am sure, you will like; clever men always like father. Mother’s day is Friday. As a rule it is the only day no one ever calls.” She laughed. The cloud had vanished. “They come on other days and find us all in our old clothes. On Friday afternoon we sit in state and nobody comes near us, and we have to eat the cakes ourselves. It makes her so cross. You will try and remember Fridays, won’t you?” I made a note of it then and there.