From that time I gave myself up unreservedly to following the 's advice. Yes, I did not even shrink from any possible charge of inconsistency. Deborah might laugh at me if she liked, Reuben might look askance out of his silence, mother might ponder; but I had been convinced; I knew what I had to do, and I would stand Trayton Harrod's friend. That was what I argued to myself. Was I quite honest? At all events I was very happy.  
One morning—it must have been about a week after the squire's words to me—I had occasion to go out onto our cliff to plant out some cuttings that Joyce had and sent me from London. Reuben was in the hard by, the grass under the apple-trees. He did such work when hands were few. The orchard was only divided by a wall from the garden, and Reuben and I kept up a brisk conversation across it.
 
"I've heard say as Mister Harrod be for persuading master to have new sorts o' planted along the hill-side this year, miss," Reuben was saying.
 
"Indeed," said I. "Well, I suppose ours aren't a good sort, then."
 
"That's for them as knows to say," replied the old man. "The Lord have made growths for every part, and it's ill flyin' in the face of the Lord."
 
"Well, Mr. Harrod knows," declared I.
 
", miss, he warn't born and bred hereabouts. But I says to him, 'You ask Barnstaple,' says I. 'He knows,' says I."
 
"You said that to Mr. Harrod, Reuben!" I exclaimed.
 
"Yes, miss," he answered, "I did."
 
"Well, then, I think it was very rude of you, Reuben. That's all I have to say."
 
"Nay, miss, I heard you say as how a stranger wouldn't be o' no good to master," grinned Reuben. "They don't understand."
 
"If I said that I made a great mistake," answered I, half angrily. "I think Mr. Harrod is a great deal of use."
 
"Well, miss, if he be agoing to have Goldings planted in instead of Early Prolifics, he won't get no change out o' the ground, that's[147] what I say. They won't thrive for nobody, and they won't do it to please him."
 
Reuben shouldered his as he said the last words, and went off to a more distant part of the orchard, and I set to work at my planting. I knew pretty well by this time that it was worse than waste of time taking Mr. Harrod's side against Reuben.
 
I wondered what he would have thought if he could have heard me taking his side. But I don't think he thought much about having a "side." He was too eager about his work.
 
I set to planting my cuttings busily—so busily that I did not hear steps on the behind me, and looked up suddenly to see Mr. Harrod on the path beside me. He did not say anything, but stood a while watching me. At last I stood up, with the trowel in my hand, and my face, I do not doubt, very red and hot beneath my big print sun-bonnet.
 
"Did you meet Reuben just now?" asked I, rather by way of saying something.
 
"No," answered he; "I've come straight from your father's room. He wants you."
 
"Does he? Well, I can't go this minute. I must finish this job. I've neglected it for a week. What does he want me for?"
 
I kneeled down and began my work again.
 
"He and I have been discussing a new scheme," said Mr. Harrod, without answering my question.
 
"What, about co-operation, and children's schools and things?" cried I, with a smile. "Is he going to press you into it too?"
 
"Oh no; about the farm," answered he. "His possessions in hops are very small, and there's a fine and unusual chance just turned up of making money. I want him to take on another small farm—specially for hops."
 
"To take on another farm!" repeated I.
 
"Yes," said he; "but he doesn't take to it. I think he must have something else in his head. But the matter must be at once, for I hear there's another man after it."
 
"Where is it?" I asked, a secret glow of satisfaction at my heart to think he should come and tell me of this as he did.
 
"It's 'The Elms,'" he answered, "below the mill on the slope yonder."
 
I stood up and stopped my gardening to show I took an interest in what he was saying. "I know 'The Elms' well enough," I said, "but I didn't know it was to let."
 
[148]
 
"Yes," he replied. "Old Searle left his affairs in a dreadful mess when he died, and the executors have decided to sell the crops at a valuation, and let the place at once without waiting till the usual term."
 
"Dear me, what an odd thing!" said I. "I thought farms were never let excepting at Michaelmas."
 
"Never is a long word," smiled Mr. Harrod. "It is unusual. But I suppose the executors don't care for the expense of putting in a bailiff till October. Anyhow, they appear to want to realize at once; and it's a good chance for us."
 
"It's all -gardens at 'The Elms,' isn't it?' asked I.
 
"Yes, chief part."
 
"It seems to me it must either be a very poor crop, or they must want a good price for it so late in the season," said I, not ill pleased with myself for what I considered the rare shrewdness of this remark.
 
But Mr. Harrod smiled again. "The price will be the average of what the crops fetched during the past three years," said he. "That's law now. I should say about �36 to the acre. Leastways, that would be the price ready for picking, but there'll be a reduction at this time of year. That'll be a matter for private bargain."
 
"Yes," said I. "There'll be many a risk between now and picking."
 
"Of course," said the bailiff, half . "But it's just about the best-looking crop in these parts at the present time. They will plant those Early Prolifics about here. I suppose it's because they can get them sooner into the market. But they're a poor hop. Now, the plants at 'The Elms' are all Goldings or Jones."
 
"But they say the Goldings will never thrive in our soil," said I.
 
"They; who are they?" retorted Harrod. "They know nothing about it."
 
"No; I dare say you're right," I hastened to say. "Only hops are always considered , aren't they?"
 
"Everything is risky," answered he, more gently. "But as I have an interest in selling the crop to advantage if it turns out well, I don't believe your father could go very far wrong over it."
 
"Well, if you think it would be such a safe , of course father ought to be persuaded to go in for it," said I.
 
"I really think so," answered Harrod, confidently.
 
"But perhaps he doesn't think he can afford the rent of it," suggested I, after a pause; "perhaps he hasn't the ready money."
 
[149]
 
"I can scarcely believe that, Miss Maliphant. Your father passes for a rich man in the county," answered he, with a smile. "No; he thinks the property is good enough as it has stood all these years; but, as a matter of fact, it would be a far more valuable one if it had better hop-gardens. Hops are the produce of the county, and I am sorry to say he doesn't stand as well in that line as many of the farmers about; he wants some one to give him courage to make this venture. Unluckily, he has not confidence enough in me, and Squire Broderick is away in London."
 
"Is the squire away?" asked I.
 
"Yes; I have just inquired, by your father's wish."
 
"I'll go and talk to father," said I, with youthful self-confidence, up my tools, and too happy in feeling that I was the supporter of the man who but a fortnight ago I had sworn to treat as an open enemy to be troubled by any .
 
As I might have known, I did not do very much good. But what Mr. Harrod had said was true—father was in some way . I think he had had a letter from Frank Forrester about the Children's Charity Houses Scheme, and it had not been a satisfactory one; for when I went into his business-room I found him busily writing to Frank, and I could not get him to pay any attention to me until after post-time. Then he let me speak.
 
"Meg, child," he said, when I had done, "I don't feel quite sure that you know a vast deal yourself about such things, but maybe you're right in one item, and that is, if I engage a man to look after my property, I ought to be willing to a bit by his advice. So we'll have a drop o' tea first, and then we'll go up and have a look at these hops of his."
 
And that is what we did. Mr. Harrod didn't come into tea, but we met him outside and walked up the hill together. It was still that bright June weather of the week before; we never had so hot and fair a summer I believe as that year. After our hard long winter the warmth was new life, and the long evenings were very . The breath of the lilac—just on the wane—of the bursting syringa, of the heavy daphne, lay upon the air, and was from behind garden walls up the village street.
 
As we passed the old town-hall and came out at the end of the road, the white arms of the mill detached themselves against the bright sky where the sun, sinking nearer to the horizon, rayed the west with glory. Father stood a moment on the of the hill looking down into the valley, upon whose confines the broad meads[150] of the South Downs into rising ground again; a stream wound across the plain, that was intersected by dikes at ; far to the left lay the sea—a dim, blue line across the stems of the trees, breaking into a little bay in the dip of the hill where the valley met the .
 
"The Elms" stood on the brow of the hill nearer the sea; the hop-gardens that belonged to it lay close at our feet. We went down the hill among the sheep and the sturdy lambs tha............