with such frail merchandise.

And now he, Harold Quaritch, was about to put forth this second
venture, not of his own desire or free will indeed, but because his
reason and judgment were over-mastered. In short, he had fallen in
love with Ida de la Molle when he first saw her five years ago, and
was now in the process of discovering the fact. There he sat in his
chair in the old half-furnished room, which he proposed to turn into
his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this portentous discovery.
What had become of his fair prospect of quiet years sloping gently
downwards, and warm with the sweet drowsy light of afternoon? How was
it that he had not known those things that belonged to his peace? And
probably it would end in nothing. Was it likely that such a splendid
young woman as Ida would care for a superannuated army officer, with
nothing to recommend him beyond five or six hundred a year and a
Victoria Cross, which he never wore. Probably if she married at all
she would try to marry someone who would assist to retrieve the fallen
fortunes of her family, which it was absolutely beyond his power to
do. Altogether the outlook did not please him, as he sat there far
into the watches of the night, and pulled at his empty pipe. So little
did it please him, indeed, that when at last he rose to find his way
to bed up the old oak staircase, the only imposing thing in Molehill,
he had almost made up his mind to give up the idea of living at Honham
at all. He would sell the place and emigrate to Vancouver's Island or
New Zealand, and thus place an impassable barrier between himself and
that sweet, strong face, which seemed to have acquired a touch of
sternness since last he looked upon it five years ago.

Ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, whither do you go in the
garish light of day? To heaven, perhaps, with the mist wreaths and the
dew drops.

When the Squire got back to the castle, he found his daughter still
sitting in the drawing room.

"What, not gone to bed, Ida?" he said.

"No, father, I was going, and then I thought that I would wait to hear
what all this is about Janter and the Moat Farm. It is best to get it
over."

"Yes, yes, my dear--yes, but there is not much to tell you. Janter has
thrown up the farm after all, and George says that there is not
another tenant to be had for love or money. He tried one man, who said
that he would not have it at five shillings an acre, as prices are."

"That