of owning the place, and so sure he could manage his farm, and his stock, and his Indians. He'd take no advice from anyone."
"I didn't notice that. What is the trouble now?"
"Well, Chard tells me that he has been going up to the shack almost every night gambling with his Indian brothers-in-law and Jammery, and getting so full he could hardly navigate his way home. The house has been overrun by the Indian kids, and the servant girl couldn't keep anything to eat in her cupboards. The fruit gets picked sometimes, and sometimes it don't."
"I'm sorry to hear this. Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Well, I knew Mr. Vale was a friend, and I thought maybe you wouldn't want to hear anything against him. Then, I'd seen you and him talking together several times, so I supposed you'd get a notion of what was going on."
"I knew things were rather bad, but I had no idea they were in that state."
"That isn't all. A couple of days ago he flew into a rage at the way they were imposing on him—I don't blame them—I think it served him right—and he simply drove them all off the place. Followed 'em to the gate and locked it after them. Chard was passing and says he looked wild, and white as a sheet. Now the thimbleberries are dropping off the canes, and there's nobody to pick them."
Grace Jerrold then rode up on her favourite horse, whose rounded sides shone with the brightness of a polished nut. She looked paler and more slender than formerly. Hobbs gazed at her keenly, trying to fathom the origin of her pallor which, he thought, was produced by one of three causes: either the extreme heat of the early summer; the anxiety arising from her father's serious financial position; or disappointment at Vale's marriage. He was inclined to credit the last reason, although she gave him a look of cold
