He stopped to snuff the crisp air from the lake and to watch a flock of gulls circling in pursuit of their evening meal.
He now saw that he was not alone, for another pedestrian had appeared around a bend of the road behind him. He watched the approach of the newcomer with the same look of pleasant curiosity that he had given to the landscape. As he came up beside him, he said:
"Can you tell me whether I am near a place named Grimstone?"
He spoke in the full, agreeable tones of a Nova Scotian; the other replied with a slight North of Ireland accent:
"You are. It's not above half a mile from here. I'm going past the gate myself, and, if you like, I'll bear you company."
They walked along together; the Nova Scotian keeping to the narrow path, while his companion strode doggedly over the frozen ruts. He was a slender, wiry man, with thin, ruddy cheeks and hard, light-blue eyes. His coatcollar was turned up against the frosty air, and he swung a carved walking-stick, as though he had a fierce pleasure in movement.
"I take it that you're young Mr. Vale, himself," he said.
The young man nodded, smiling with a little embarrassment.
"It's queer they didn't come to meet ye."
"They are not expecting me till tomorrow. I found I could get away a day earlier, and—well, I suppose I was in a hurry to see the place."
"Naturally. It's a fine place, but not kept up as it should be. But perhaps you've visited it before?"
"No. I have never been west of Quebec till now."
"Perhaps you've never taken much interest in farming, eh?" His tone was inquisitive.
