“Father, we have business to do.  Robert gives me his rooms here for a little time; his landlady is a kind woman, and will take care of me.  You will trust me to Robert.”

“I’ll bring Rhoda down on Monday evening,” Robert said to the farmer.  “You may trust me, Mr. Fleming.”

“That I know.  That I’m sure of.  That’s a certainty,” said the farmer.  “I’d do it for good, if for good was in the girl’s heart, Robert.  There seems,” he hesitated; “eh, Robert, there seems a something upon us all.  There’s a something to be done, is there?  But if I’ve got my flesh and blood, and none can spit on her, why should I be asking ‘whats’ and ‘whys’?  I bow my head; and God forgive me, if ever I complained.  And you will bring Rhoda to us on Monday?”

“Yes; and try and help to make the farm look up again, if Gammon’ll do the ordering about.”

“Poor old Mas’ Gammon!  He’s a rare old man.  Is he changed by adversity, Robert?  Though he’s awful secret, that old man!  Do you consider a bit Gammon’s faithfulness, Robert!”

“Ay, he’s above most men in that,” Robert agreed.

“On with Dahlia’s bonnet—­sharp!” the farmer gave command.  He felt, now that he was growing accustomed to the common observation of things, that the faces and voices around him were different from such as the day brings in its usual course.  “We’re all as slow as Mas’ Gammon, I reckon.”

“Father,” said Rhoda, “she is weak.  She has been very unwell.  Do not trouble her with any questions.  Do not let any questions be asked of her at hone.  Any talking fatigues; it may be dangerous to her.”

The farmer stared.  “Ay, and about her hair....I’m beginning to remember.  She wears a cap, and her hair’s cut off like an oakum-picker’s.  That’s more gossip for neighbours!”

“Mad people! will they listen to truth?” Rhoda flamed out in her dark fashion.  “We speak truth, nothing but truth.  She has had a brain fever.  That makes her very weak, and every one must be silent at home.  Father, stop the sale of the farm, for Robert will work it into order.  He has promised to be our friend, and Dahlia will get her health there, and be near mother’s grave.”

The farmer replied, as from a far thought, “There’s money in my pocket to take down two.”

He continued:  “But there’s not money there to feed our family a week on; I leave it to the Lord.  I sow; I dig, and I sow, and when bread fails to us the land must go; and let it go, and no crying about it.  I’m astonishing easy at heart, though if I must sell, and do sell, I shan’t help thinking of my father, and his father, and the father before him—­mayhap, and in most likelihood, artfuller men ’n me—­for what they was born to they made to flourish.  They’ll cry in their graves.  A man’s heart sticks to land, Robert; that you’ll find, some day.  I thought I cared none but about land till that poor, weak, white thing put her arms on my neck.”