The terms they finally agreed to ask for appeared reasonable to Lestrange. He proposed that Richard should work for not less than a year, while Lestrange reserved the right of giving him a month’s notice. These points agreed to, an agreement was drawn up and signed—much to the satisfaction of Simon Armour, whose first thought was that the work would be so easy for Richard that he would want a little exercise at the forge after hours. Richard, however, as much as he liked the anvil, was not so sure about this—there might be books to read after he had done his day’s duty by their garments. He had already half laid out a plan of study for his leisure time.

It was a lovely evening when he arrived at Mortgrange from his grandfather’s. He was shown to his new quarters in the mansion by the housekeeper, an elderly, worthy woman with the air of a hostess. She liked the young man. His honest, friendly carriage pleased her. He was handsome too, though not strikingly so. When he sat down to his work as lightly as a gentleman to his dinner, he gave the impression of being a painter or sculptor rather than a tradesman. His bearing suggested a desire rather than a necessity to work.

“Here is your room, young man,” said Mrs. Locke.

It was a large, rather neglected chamber at the end of a long passage on the second floor.

“And I hope you will find yourself comfortable,” continued the old lady in a tone that implied, “You ought to be!”

“If you’re wanting anything, or have anything to complain of, let me know,” she added. “I thought it better not to put you in the servants’ quarters!”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Richard. “This is a beautiful room for me! Do you know where I am to work?”

“I have not been informed,” she answered as she left the room. “Mr. Lestrange will see to that.”

Richard went to the window. Before him spread an extensive but somewhat bare park, for the trees were rather sparse. Some of them, however, were grand. Many had been cut down and only the finest left. A sea of grass lay in every direction, with islands of clumps and thickets, and vague shores of hedge and wood and ploughed field. In the distance grazed cattle and sheep and fallow deer.

The day was late in the spring, summer was close at hand. There had been rain all morning and afternoon, but the clouds were clearing away now as the sun was going down. Everything was wet, and the undried tears of the day flashed in the sunset. Nature looked like a child whose gladness had come, but who could not stop crying. So heartily had she gone in for sorrow that her mind was shaped to weeping. Most of the clouds, recently dark and sullen, were putting on garments of light as if resolved to forgive and forget, and leave no doubt of it. But the sun did not look satisfied with the day’s work. Slant across the world to Richard’s window came the last of his vanishing rays, blinding him as he brooded. Somehow the sun seemed sad, as if atonement had come too late. In a few moments the clouds closed on the twilight, the world grew dismal, and the sadness crept into Richard, or was it not rather that his own hidden sadness rose up to meet the sadness of the world. He was not used to the sensation, and found himself confused by it. A man must assert what is highest in him, else he cannot lay hold of the best—a man must will to be glad, else deserve to be sorrowful.