The harvesting was over in Brier Dale. It was near dinner-time,
and Allen, Trove, and the two hired men were trying feats in the
dooryard. Trove, then a boy of fifteen, had outdone them all at
the jumping. A stranger came along, riding a big mare with a young
filly at her side. He was a tall, spare man, past middle age, with
a red, smooth-shaven face and long, gray hair that fell to his
rolling collar. He turned in at the gate. A little beyond it his
mare halted for a mouthful of grass. The stranger unslung a strap
that held a satchel to his side and hung it on the pommel.

"Go and ask what we can do for him," Allen whispered to the boy.

Trove went down the drive, looking up at him curiously.

"What can I do for you?" he inquired.

"Give me thy youth," said the stranger, quickly, his gray eyes
twinkling under silvered brows.

The boy, now smiling, made no answer.

"No?" said the man, as he came on slowly. "Well, then, were thy
wit as good as thy legs it would be o' some use to me."

The words were spoken with dignity in a deep, kindly tone. They
were also faintly salted with Irish brogue.

He approached the men, all eyes fixed upon him with a look of
inquiry.