tion, and suspected that Martin would not assert himself among the
friends of his youth, would not assume a position his riches warranted,
would be content with too humble a manner of life.

As a matter of fact, the ambition of neither extended much beyond a life
of peace among the scenes of his childhood; but while the younger
traveller returned with unuttered thanksgivings in his heart that he was
privileged again to see the land he loved and henceforth dwell amid its
cherished scenes, the greater energy and wider ambition of his brother
planned a position of some prominence if not power. John was above all
else a sportsman, and his programme embraced land, a stout new
dwelling-house, preserves of game in a small way, some fishing, and the
formation of a new rifle-corps at Chagford. This last enterprise he
intended to be the serious business of life; but his mind was open to
any new, agreeable impressions and, indeed, it received them at every
turn. Phoebe Lyddon awoke a very vital train of thoughts, and when he
left her, promising to come with his brother on the following day to see
the miller, John Grimbal's impressionable heart was stamped with her
pretty image, his ear still held the melody of her voice.

He crossed the stepping-stones, sat down upon the bank to change his
flies, and looked at the home of Phoebe without sentiment, yet not
without pleasure. It lay all cuddled on the bosom of a green hill; to
the west stretched meadows and orchard along the winding valley of the
river; to the east extended more grass-land that emerged into ferny
coombs and glades and river dells, all alive with the light of wild
flowers and the music of birds, with the play of dusky sunshine in the
still water, and of shadows on the shore.

A little procession of white ducks sailed slowly up the river, and each
as it passed twisted its head to peer up at the spectator. Presently the
drake who led them touched bottom, and his red-gold webs appeared. Then
he paddled ashore, lifted up his voice, waggled his tail, and with a
crescendo of quacking conducted his harem into the farmyard. One lone
Muscovy duck, perchance emulating the holy men of old in their
self-communion, or else constrained by circumstance to a solitary life,
appeared apart on a little island under the alders. A stranger in a
strange land, he sat with bent head and red-rimmed, philosophic eyes,
regarding his own breast while sunset lights fired the metallic lustre
of