"Indeed, Julian," answered Anthony, "I have come on more self-seeking purposes. We are behind with our hay at Willsworthy. The place lies so high, and is so bleak, that we are a fortnight behind you here; and then the weather has played us tricks, so that none has as yet been saved. I want additional help; there are none save our two men and myself. Solomon Gibbs counts naught, and I cannot ask help from Hall, as you well know. I do not desire to ask a favour elsewhere, and so I have come here to see Fox, and ask his help." "Fox is away--I believe he is at Hall. But I can answer your question, and grant your petition, which I do with a ready heart. How many men do you want? I will send all you desire--I will come myself and help toss the hay--No," she checked herself, as the thought of Urith rose within, "no, I will not go near Willsworthy myself, but I will send the workmen." "I thank you," answered Anthony. "We do not grow rich shears of hay as you do here; but what does grow is said to be sweet. I hope it may be so, for it is not over-much." There was a tone of disparagement in reference to Willsworthy that struck Julian. "I have heard Fox comment on the place," she said, "and he thinks well of it." "A thing may look well at a distance, that won't bear looking into close at hand," said Anthony. She looked at him, and his eyes fell. He had not meant more than he had said, but when she thus glanced up with a query in her eyes, he thought that perhaps his words might apply to other things than grass fields and tumble-down farm buildings. Julian took up the letter from the seat by her, and passed her hand lightly over the seat, as a sign to him to take it. He did so, without more ado. He was heated and tired with his walk. Then Julian resumed her embroidery, and bowed her head over it. She waited for him to start some topic of conversation. But he was silent. He who had formerly been full of talk and mirth, had become reserved and grave. After a long and painful silence, Julian asked, in a low voice, "What is Urith about?" "I beg your pardon?" asked Anthony, roused out of a reverie. "Urith--what about Urith?" "I asked what she was about." "I cannot tell. Nothing in particular, I suppose." The same tone as that in which he had spoken about Willsworthy. "Your marriage does not seem to have improved your spirits. I miss your olden gaiety." "I have enough to take that out of me. There is my father's continued ill-humour. What think you of that, Julian? Is there any immediate prospect of his coming to a better mind?" "My brother could answer this question better than I, for I have no occasion or opportunity for speaking with your father, whereas Fox is over at Hall twice or thrice in the week." "What makes him go there?" "There you ask me what once more I cannot answer. But let us say he goes in your interest. He is your friend." "About the only friend I have left," said Anthony, with bitterness.