heart was turned from him altogether.  Of course he had himself to blame,—­himself only; but still it was strange to him that a father should feel no tenderness at parting with an only son.  While he had been in the room he had constrained himself manfully; not a drop of moisture had glittered in his eye; not a tone of feeling had thrilled in his voice; his features had never failed him.  There had always been that look of audacity on his brow joined to a certain manliness of good-humour in his mouth, as though he had been thoroughly master of himself and the situation.  But now, as he pushed his hat from off his forehead, he rubbed his hand across his eyes to dash away the tears.  He felt almost inclined to rush back to the house and fall on his knees before his father, and kiss the old man’s hands, and beg the old man’s blessing.  But though he was potent for much he was not potent for that.  Such expression of tenderness would have been true; but he knew that he would so break down in the attempt as to make it seem to be false.

He got out upon Twopenny Drove and passed over the ferry, meaning to walk across the farm and so out on to the Causeway, and round home by the bridge.  But on the other side of the Wash he encountered Mr. Ralph Holt, the occupier of Twopenny farm, whose father also and grandfather had lived upon the same acres.  ’And so thou be’est going away from us, Mr. John,’ said the farmer, with real tenderness, almost with solemnity, in his voice, although there was at the same time something ridiculous in the far-fetched sadness of his tone and gait.

’Yes, indeed, Holt, I want to travel and see the world at a distance from here.’

’If it was no more than that, Mr. John, there would be nothing about it.  Zeeing the world!  You young collegers allays does that.  But be’est thou to come back and be Squoire o’Folking?’

’I think not, Holt, I think not.  My father, I hope, will be Squire for many a year.’

’Like enough.  And we all hope that, for there aren’t nowhere a juster man nor the Squoire, and he’s hale and hearty.  But in course of things his time’ll run out.  And it be so, Mr. John, that thou be’est going for ever and allays?’

‘I rather think I am.’

’It’s wrong, Mr. John.  Though maybe I’m making over-free to talk of what don’t concern me.  Yet I say it’s wrong.  Sons should come arter fathers, specially where there’s land.  We don’t none of us like it;—­none of us!  It’s worse nor going, any one of ourselves.  For what’s a lease?  But when a man has a freehold he should stick to it for ever and aye.  It’s just as though the old place was a-tumbling about all our ears.’  Caldigate was good-natured with the man, trying to make him understand that everything was being done for the best.  And at last he bade him good-bye affectionately, shaking hands with him, and going into the farmhouse to perform the same ceremony with his wife and daughters.  But to the last Ralph Holt was uncomfortable and dismal, foretelling miseries.  It was clear that, to his thinking, the stability of this world was undermined and destroyed by the very contemplation of such a proceeding as this.