for his gude. 'Twas
his awn mistake. He tawld me the blame was his. Let un get on the bed
rock. Then he'll be meek as a worm."

"I doubt it. A sale of his goods will break his heart."

"Not it! He haven't got much as'll be hard to paart from. Stern
measures--stern measures for his everlastin' welfare. Think of the
wild-fire sawl of un! Never yet did a sawl want steadin' worse'n his.
Keep you to the fust plan, and he'll thank'e yet."

Elsewhere two women--his wife and sister--failed utterly in well-meaning
efforts to comfort the stricken farmer. Presently, before nightfall,
Mrs. Blanchard also arrived at Newtake, and Will listened dully with
smouldering eyes as his mother talked. The veterinary surgeon from
Moreton had come, but his efforts were vain. Only two beasts out of
five-and-twenty still lived.

"Send for butcher," he said. "He'll be more use than I can be. The thing
is done and can't be undone."

Chris entered most closely into her brother's feelings and spared him
the expressions of sorrow and sympathy which stung him, even from his
mother's lips, uttered at this crisis. She set about preparing supper,
which weeping Phoebe had forgotten.

"You'll weather it yet, bwoy," Mrs. Blanchard said.

"Theer's a little bit as I've got stowed away for'e; an' come the hay--"

"Doan't talk that way. 'Tis done with now. I'm quite cool'pon it. We
must go as we'm driven. No more gropin' an' fightin' on this blasted
wilderness for me, that's all. I be gwaine to turn my back 'pon it--fog
an' filthy weather an' ice an' snow. You wants angels from heaven to
help 'e, if you're to do any gude here; an' heaven's long tired o' me
an' mine. So I'll make shift to do wi'out. An' never tell me no more
lies 'bout God helpin' them as helps themselves, 'cause I've proved it
ban't so. I be gwaine to furrin' lands to dig for gawld or di'monds. The
right build o' man for gawld-seekin', me; 'cause I've larned patience
an' caan't be choked off a job tu easy."

"Think twice. Bad luck doan't dog a man for ever. An' Phoebe an' the
childer."

"My mind's made up. I figured it out comin' home from Moreton. I'm away
in six weeks or less. A chap what's got to dig for a livin' may just as
well handle his tools where theer's summat worth findin' hid in the
land, as here, on this black, damned airth, wheer your pick strikes fire
out o' stone twenty times a day. The Moor's the Moor. Everybody knaws
the way of it. Scratch its faace an' it picks yo