He
is going to quarry in your farm for grindstones, and make his fortune.
But, as he wants yourself into the bargain, I imagine he can't get the
land without you, so that somebody must have paid the taxes."
"Then it is the little wretch Marjorie told me of, the cruel creature
who kicked a poor dog?"
"The very same; he is the Grinstun man. I've got a poem on him I'll read
you some day."
"That will be delightful; I am very fond of good poetry."
"Wilks says it isn't good poetry; but any man that grovels over
Wordsworth, with a tear in the old man's eye, is a poor judge."
"I admire Wordsworth, Mr. Coristine, and am afraid that you are not in
earnest about poetry. To me it is like life, a very serious thing. But,
tell me, do you think the land is safe?"
"Oh yes; I wrote to one of the salaried juniors, giving him instructions
to look after it, just as soon as I heard what Grinstuns had his eye
on."
"Mr. Coristine! How shall I ever thank you for your kindness, you, of
all men, who profess to treat us workers for our living as positive
nonentities?"
"By forgetting the past, Miss Du Plessis, and allowing me the honour of
your acquaintance in future.
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