"I'll do it," said Bartley, "if you'll be my neighbor, and work it with
me, and watch the share market at home and abroad."

Hope acquiesced joyfully to be near his daughter; and they found a farm
in Sussex, with hills for the sheep, short grass for colts, plenty of
water, enough arable land and artificial grasses for their purpose, and a
grand sunny slope for their fruit trees, fruit bushes, and strawberries,
with which last alone they paid the rent.

"Then," said Hope, "farm laborers drink an ocean of beer. Now look at the
retail price of beer: eighty per cent. over its cost, and yet
deleterious, which tells against your labor. As an employer of labor, the
main expense of a farm, you want beer to be slightly nourishing, and very
inspiriting, not somniferous."

So they set up a malt-house and a brew-house, and supplied all their own
hands with genuine liquor on the truck system at a moderate but
remunerative price, and the grains helped to feed their pigs. Hope's
principle was this: Sell no produce in its primitive form; if you change
its form you make two profits. Do you grow barley? Malt it, and infuse
it, and sell the liquor for two small profits, one on the grain, and one
on the infusion. Do you grow grass? Turn it into flesh, and sell for two
small profits, one on the herb, and one on the animal.

And really, when backed by money, the results seemed to justify his
principle.

Hope lived by himself, but not far from his child, and often, when she
went abroad, his loving eyes watched her every movement through his
binocular, which might be described as an opera-glass ten inches long,