covered perhaps with snow; and the distant stretches of the plain. There
was not another house, not even a cottage, anywhere in sight. The
village had disappeared. She herself, in the old wagonette, seemed the
only living thing.

No, there was a man emerging from the farm-gate, and coming to meet
her--the bailiff, George Hastings. She had only seen him once before, on
her first hurried visit, when, after getting a rough estimate from him of
the repairs necessary to the house and buildings, she had made up her
mind to take the farm, if the landlord would agree to do them.

"Yon's Muster Hastings," said Jonathan Webb, turning on her a benevolent
and wrinkled countenance, with two bright red spots in the midst of each
weather-beaten cheek. Miss Henderson again noticed the observant
curiosity in the old man's eyes. Everybody, indeed, seemed to look at her
with the same expression. As a woman farmer she was no doubt just a
freak, a sport, in the eyes of the village. Well, she prophesied they
would take her seriously before long.

"I'm afraid I haven't as much to show you, miss, as I'd like," said
Hastings, as he helped her to alight. "It's cruel work nowadays trying to
do anything of this kind. Two of the men that began work last week have
been called up, and there's another been just 'ticed away from me this
week. The wages that some people about will give are just mad!" He threw
up his hands. "Colonel Shepherd says he can't compete."

Miss Henderson replied civilly but decidedly that somehow or other the
work would have to be done. If Colonel Shepherd couldn't find the wages,
she must pay the difference. Get in some time, during August, she must.