of red brick and tile. The pertaining farm already had a tenant, and
represented four hundred acres of arable land, with possibilities of
development; snug woods wound along the boundaries of the estate and
mingled their branches with others not more stately though sprung from
the nobler domain of Whiddon; and Chagford was distant but a mile, or
five minutes' ride.

Tongues wagged that evening concerning the Red House, as the ruin was
called, and a question arose as to whom John Grimbal must apply for
information respecting the property.

"I noted on the board two names--one in London, one handy at Newton
Abbot--a Mr. Joel Ford, of Wolborough Street."

Phoebe blushed where she sat and very nearly said, "My Will's uncle!"
but thought better of it and kept silent. Meanwhile her father answered.

"Ford's an attorney, Mrs. Blanchard's brother, a maker of agreements
between man and man, and a dusty, dry sort of chip, from all I've heard
tell. His father and mine were friends forty years and more agone. Old
Ford had Newtake Farm on the Moor, and wore his fingers to the bone that
his son might have good schooling and a learned profession."

"He's in Chagford this very minute," said Phoebe.

Then Mr. Blee spoke. On the occasion of any entertainment at Monks
Barton he waited at table instead of eating with the family as usual.
Now he addressed the company from his station behind Mr. Lyddon's chair.

"Joel Ford's biding with his sister. A wonderful deep man, to my certain