The harvest brought again the opportunity of earning a pound or two, and Cosmo was not the man to let it slip. But he would not go so far from home again, for, though his father never pined or complained, Cosmo could see that his days shrunk more rapidly when he was not with him: left alone, he began at once to go home the faster--as if another dragging anchor were cast loose, and he was drawn the more swiftly whither sets the tide of life. To the old and weary man the life to come showed as rest; to the young and active Cosmo it promised more work. It is all one; what we need for rest as well as for labour is _life_; more life we want, and that is everything. That which is would be more. The eternal root causes us to long for more existence, more being, more of God’s making, less of our own unmaking. Our very desire after rest comes of life, life so strong that it recoils from weariness. The imperfect needs to be more--must grow. The sense of growth, of ever enlarging existence, is essential to the created children of an infinite Father; for in the children the paternal infinite goes on working--by them recognizable, not as infinitude, but as growth. The best thing in sight for both father and son seemed to Cosmo a place in Lord Lick-my-loof’s harvest--an engagement to reap, amongst the rest, the fields that had so lately been his own. He would then be almost within sight of his father when not with him. He applied, therefore, to the _grieve_, the same man with whom he had all but fought that memorable Sunday of Trespass. Though of a coarse, the man was not of a spiteful nature, and that he had quarrelled with another was not to him sufficient reason for hating him ever after; yet, as he carried the application to his lordship, for he dared not without his master’s leave engage to his service the man he counted his enemy, it gave him pleasure to see what he called poor pride brought to the shame of what he called beggary--as if the labour of a gentleman’s hands were not a good deal further from beggary than the living upon money gained anyhow by his ancestors! Lord Lick-my-loof smouldered awhile before giving an answer. The question was, which would most gratify the feelings he cherished towards the man of old blood, high station, and evil fortunes--to accept or refuse the offered toil. His deliberation ended in his giving orders to the bailiff to _fee_ the young laird, but to mind he did not pay workmen’s wages for gentleman’s work--which injunction the bailiff allowed to reach Cosmo’s ears.