and so forth. But I don't see that I gain much
by it. Horrid stupid work, too,"--with a yawn. "Luckily, Sawyer is one
of the most knowing fellows in the world, or I suppose I should go to
smash. He is up to everything, and talks like a book. Quite a
pleasure, I give you my word,--almost a privilege,--to hear him
converse on short-horns and some eccentric root they call mangels."

"It is possible to be too knowing," says his uncle, depreciatingly.

"Eh? oh, no; Sawyer is not that sort of person. He is quite straight
all through. And he never worries me more than he can help. He looks
after everything, and whatever he touches (metaphorically speaking)
turns to gold. I'm sure anything like those pheasants----"

"Yes, yes, I dare say. But pheasants are not everything."

"Well, no; there are a few other things," says Dorian,
amicably,--"notably, grouse. Why this undying hatred to Sawyer, my
dear Arthur? In what has he been found wanting?"

"I think him a low, under-hand, sneaking sort of fellow," says
Sartoris, unhesitatingly. "I should not keep him in my employ half an
hour. However," relentingly, and somewhat sadly, "one cannot always
judge by appearances."

They have reached the village by this time, and are walking leisurely
through it. Almost as they reach the hotel that adorns the centre of
the main street, they meet Mr. Redmond, the rector, looking as hearty
and kindly as usual. Lord Sartoris, who has come down on purpose to
meet him, having asked his question and received his answer, turns
again and walks slowly homeward, Dorian still beside him.

As they again catch sight of the old mill, Sartoris says, quietly,
with a laudable attempt at unconcern that would not have deceived the
veriest infant, but is quite successful with Dorian, whose thoughts
are far away,--

"What a nice girl that little Ruth has grown!"

"Awfully pretty girl," returns Dorian, carelessly.

"Yes,"--gravely,--"very pretty; and I think--I hope--upright, as she
is beautiful. Poor child, hers seems to me a very desolate lot. Far
too well educated to associate with those of her own class, she is
still cut off by the laws of caste from mixing with those above her.
She has no friends, no mother, no sister, to love and sympathize with
her."

"My dear Arthur, how you do agonize yourself!" says Dorian. "She has
her father, and about as comfortable a time altogether as I know of."

"She reminds me of some lowly wayside flower," goes on the o