Anthony attacked the task with great energy. He knew exactly what was wanted, and he had great physical strength, which he did not spare. Some of the walls of moonstone--uncemented, unbound together by mortar, piled one on another, and maintaining their place by their own weight--had fallen, and presented gaps through which the moor-ponies and cattle invaded the fields, and their own beasts escaped. Anthony set to work to rebuild these places. The stones were there, but prostrate, and, through long neglect, overgrown with moss, and embedded in the soil. Urith brought out her knitting and sat on a stone by him, as he worked, in the sun and sweet air. Never had Urith been so happy--never Anthony so joyous. Never before had Urith cared about the preparation of a meal, and never before had Anthony so enjoyed his food. They were like children--careless of the morrow, laughing, and in cloudless merriment. The old servant, who had grumbled and shaken her head over the precipitate marriage of Urith, was carried away by the joyousness of the young couple, unbent, smiled, and forgave the indiscretion. They received visitors--not many, but some. Urith and her mother had had few acquaintances, and these came to wish the young couple happiness. Those of old Cleverdon kept aloof, or came hesitatingly: they were unwilling to break with the rich father for the sake of the son out of favour. Luke made his formal call. He came seldom; he had not sufficiently conquered his own heart to be able to look on upon the happiness of his cousin and Urith without a pang. When, a month after the wedding, he met Anthony one day, the latter flew out somewhat hotly in complaint of the neglect with which he had been treated. "I suppose you also, Cousin Luke, are hedging, and trying to make friends with my father by showing me the cold shoulder." "You say this!" exclaimed Luke, in pained surprise. "You have rarely been to see me since my marriage. I hardly know what is going on in the world outside our boundary-walls. But it does not matter--I have a world of work, and of content within." Luke made no reply. "There is Bessie, too--I thought better of her--she has not been over to us. I suppose she knows on which side her bread is buttered." "There you wrong her," answered Luke, hotly. "You little have understood and valued Bessie's generous, unselfish, loving heart, if you can say such a word as that of her." "Then why has she not been near me?" "Because she has been forbidden by your father. You know, if you have any grace in you, Anthony, that this prohibition troubles her, and costs her more tears and heartaches than you." "She should disobey in this matter. I see neither reason nor religion in blind obedience to irrational commands." "She may serve your interests better by submission. You may be well assured that your welfare is at her heart; and that she seeks in every way to bend your father's stubborn will, and bring him to a reconciliation with you."