rmined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands
from all parts of the neighbourhood. Lilac knew most of them, and
passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey
cob at the end of the field. He was talking to Peter, who stood by him
with a wooden pitchfork in his hand.

Lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as
she handed up his meal to him. He sat there eating and drinking, and
continued his conversation with his son.

"Well, and what d'ye think of Buckle's offer for the colt?"

"Pity we can't sell him," answered Peter.

"_Can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "I'm not so sure about that.
Maybe he'd go sound now. He doesn't show no signs of lameness."

"Wouldn't last a month on the roads," said Peter.

The farmer's face clouded a little. "Well," he said hesitatingly,
"that's Buckle's business. He can look him over, and if he don't see
nothing wrong--"

"We hadn't ought to sell him," said Peter in exactly the same voice.
"He's not fit for the roads. Take him off soft ground and he'd go queer
in a week."

"He might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all I know is I
want the cash. It'd just pay that bill of Jones's, as is always
bothering for his money. I declare I hate going into Lenham for fear of
meeting that chap."

Peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. He did not
look at his father or change his expression, but he said again:

"Knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him."

The farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the
steady grey pony was startled.

"I wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then.
I'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone.
I've always liked best to be straight, but I'm too hard up to be so
particular as that comes to. It's easy enough," he added moodily, "for
a man to be honest with his pockets full of money."

"I could get the same price for None-so-pretty," said Peter after a long
pause. "Mrs Grey wants her--over at Cuddingham. Took a fancy to her a
month ago."

"I'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "What's the good of
selling her? She's useful to us, and the colt isn't."

"She ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said Peter.
"She's more of a fancy."

"Well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "You can do as you
like with her of course; but I'