Dr. Espinette from Rye stood glumly by Harry\'s bed. His finger lay on the fluttering pulse, and his eye studied the little of the sick man\'s face that could be seen between its bandages.

"It\'s a bad business," he said at last; "that wound in the head\'s the worst of it. The burns aren\'t very serious in themselves. You must keep him quiet, and I\'ll call again to-morrow morning."

"When ull he w?ake up?" asked Mrs. Backfield in the feeble voice her tears had left her.

"I don\'t know—it may be in an hour or two, it mayn\'t be for a week."

"A week!"

"I\'ve known them unconscious longer than that. But, cheer up, ma\'am—we\'re not going to let him slip past us."

The doctor went away, and after a time Reuben was able to persuade his mother to go and lie down in the next room. He had quite recovered from the shock of the explosion; indeed, he was now the only calm person in the house. He sat down by Harry\'s bed, gazing at the unconscious face.

How horrible everything had been! How horrible everything was still, with that loggish, inanimate thing lying there, all that was left of Beautiful Harry. Reuben wondered if he would die. If so, he had killed him—he had ignored his own inexperience and played splashy tricks with his new land. But no—he had not killed him—it was Boarzell, claiming a victim in the signal-rite of its subjection. He remembered how that thirsty ground had drunk up Harry\'s blood. Perhaps it would drink up much more blood before he had done with it—perhaps it would one day drink up his blood.... A vague, a sudden, a ridiculous fear clutched his thoughts; for the first time he felt afraid of the thing he had set out to conquer—for the first time Boarzell was not just unfruitful soil, harsh heather clumps and gorse-roots—it was something personal, opposing, vindictive, blood-drinking.

He sprang to his feet and began pacing up and down the room. The window square was black. He was glad he could not see Boarzell with its knob of firs. Gradually the motion of his legs calmed his thoughts, he fell to pondering more ordinary things—had his mother remembered to stand the evening\'s milk in the cream pans? She had probably forgotten all about the curate\'s butter to be delivered the next morning. What had Harry done about those mangolds at Moor\'s Cottage? Durn it! He would have to do all the work of the farm to-morrow—how he was to manage things he didn\'t know, what with the dairy and the new chicks and the Alderney having garget. He stopped pacing, and chin in hand was considering the expediency of[Pg 48] engaging outside help, when a voice from the bed cried feebly:

"O............