They set out after breakfast to walk the four or five miles by the road that lay between them and Mortgrange. It was a fine frosty morning. Not a few yellow leaves were still hanging, and the sun was warm and bright. It was one of those days near the death of the year that make us wonder why the heart of man should revive and feel strong while Nature is falling into her dreary trance. Richard was in high spirit—for no reason but that his spirits were high. He was happy because he was happy. He had indeed begun to learn that a man must mind his duty before his happiness. That was a great lesson to learn, but he had not yet been tried in the matter of doing his duty when unhappy. He was happy now, and that was enough. The putting forth of their strength and skill doubtless makes many men feel happy—so long as they are in health. But how will they fare when they come to feel when their health is no longer in their power? Richard took the thing that came, asked no questions, returned no thanks. He found himself here. Whence he came he did not care. Whither he was going he did not inquire.

On their way Simon talked about the place they were going to see, and said its present owner was an elderly man, not very robust, with a wife and four children.

“That was their son that came with the little lady,” he said.

“And the little lady was their daughter, I suppose,” rejoined Richard, with an odd quiver somewhere near his heart.

“She’s an Australian, they say,” answered his grandfather. “No relation.”

“Is Mortgrange a grand place?” asked Richard.

“It’s a fine house and a great estate,” answered Simon. “More might be made of it, no doubt, and I hope one day more will be made of it.”

“What do you mean by that, grandfather?”

“I hope the son will make a better landlord than the father.”

They came to a great iron gate, standing open, without any gatehouse.

“We’re in luck!” said the blacksmith. “This will save us a long walk around. Somebody must have ridden out and been too lazy to shut it. We’d better leave it as we find it, and bring the two gates together without snapping the locks. I know these locks—I put them on myself. See what a fine piece of work that gate is!”

“I could almost give up bookbinding to work on a pair of gates like those,” said Richard.

“I believe you, my boy!” returned his grandfather. “Come and live with me and you shall!”

The gate admitted them to a long, winding road, with clumps of trees here and there on the borders of it. The road was apparently not much used, for it was grassy. A ploughed field was on one side and a wild heathy expanse, dotted with fir trees, on the other. Suddenly on the side of the field and gradually on the side of the heath, the ground changed to the green sward of a park.