take his wife to see the ground. It was close
at hand; yet he hindered her going in the
morning, and again after their early dinner.
He was anxious that she should not be
prejudiced, or take a dislike at first; and in the
morning, the fog was so thick that everything
looked dank and dreary; and in the
middle of the day, when a warm autumn
sun had dissolved the mists, there certainly
was a most disagreeable smell hanging about.
It was not gone at sunset; but by that time
Mrs. Woodruffe was impatient, and she
appeared—Allan showing her the way—just
when her husband was scraping his feet upon
his spade, after a hard day of digging.

"There, now!" said he, good-humouredly,
striking his spade into the ground, "Fleming
said you would be down before we were ready
for you: and here you are!—Yes, ready for
you. There are some planks coming, to
keep your feet out of the wet among all this
clay."

"And yours too, I hope," said the wife. "I
don't mind such wet, after rain, as you have
been accustomed to; but to stand in a puddle
like this is a very different thing."

"Yes—so 'tis. But we'll have the planks;
and they will serve for running the wheel-
barrow too. It is too much for Allan, or any
boy, to run the barrow in such a soil as this.
We'll have the planks first; and then we'll
drain, and drain, and get rare spring crops."

"What have they given you this artificial
pond for," asked the wife, "if you must drain
so much?"

"That is no pond. All the way along here,
on both sides the railway, there is the
mischief of these pits. They dig out the clay
for bricks, and then leave the places—pits
like this, some of them six feet deep. The
railways have done a deal of good for the poor
man, and will do a great deal more yet; but,
at present this one has left those pits."

"I hope Moss will not fall into one. They
are very dangerous," declared the mother,
looking about for the child.

"He is safe enough there, among the osiers,"
said the father. "He has lost his heart outright
to the osiers. However, I mean to drain
and fill up this pit, when I find a good
outfall: and then we will have all high and dry,
and safe for the children. I don't care so
much for the pit as for the ditches there.
Don't you notice the bad smell?"

"Yes, indeed, that struck me the first
night."

"I have been inquiring to-day, and I find
there is one acre in twenty hereabouts
occupied with foul ditches like that. And then
the overflow from them and the pits, spoils
many an acre more. There is a stretch of
water-flags and bulrushes, and nasty coarse
grass and rushes, nothing but a swamp, where
the ground is naturally as good as this; and,
look here! Fleming was rather out, I tell him,
when he wrote that I might graze a pony on
the pasture below, whenever I have a market-
cart. I ask him if he expects me to water it
here."

So saying, Woodruffe led the way to one of
the ditches which, instead of fences, bounded
his land; and, moving the mass of weeds with
a stick, showed the water beneath, covered
with a whitish bubbling scum, the smell of
which was insufferable.

"There is plenty of manure there," said
Woodruffe: "that is the only thing that can
be said for it. We'll make manure of it, and
sweep out the ditch, and deepen it, and narrow
it, and not use up so many feet of good ground
for a ditch that does nothing but poison us.
A fence is better than a ditch any day. I'll
have a fence, and still save ten feet of ground,
the whole way down."

"There is a great deal to do here," observed
the wife.

"And good reward when it is done,"
Woodruffe replied. "If I can fall in with a stout
labourer, he and Allan and I can get our
spring crops prepared for; and I expect they
will prove the goodness of the soil. There is
Fleming. Supper is ready, I suppose."

The children were called, but both were so
wet and dirty that it took twice as long as
usual to make them fit to sit at table: and
apologies were made for keeping supper
waiting. The grave half-hour before Moss's
bedtime was occupied with the most solemn
piece of instruction he had ever had in his
life. His father carried him up to the railway,
and made him understand the danger of
playing there. He was never to play there.
His father would go up with him once a day,
and let him see a train pass: and this was the
only time he was ever to mount the steps,
except by express leave. Moss was put to
bed in silence, with his father's deep, grave
voice sounding in his ears.

"He will not forget it," declared his father.
"He will give us no trouble about the railway.
The next thing is the pit. Allan, I expect
you to see that he does not fall into the pit.
In time, we shall teach him to take care of
himself; but you must remember, meanwhile,
that the pit is six feet deep—deeper than I am
high: and that the edge is the same clay that
you slipped on so often this morning."

"Yes, father," said Allan, looking as grave
as if power of life and death were in his
hands.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

One fine morning in the next spring, there
was more stir and cheerfulness about the
Woodruffes' dwelling than there had been of
late. The winter had been somewhat dreary;
and now the spring was anxious; for
Woodruffe's business was not, as yet, doing very
well. His hope, when he bought his pony
and cart, was to dispatch by railway to the
town the best of his produce, and sell the
commoner part in the country neighbourhood,
sending his cart round within the reach of a
few miles. As it turned out, he had nothing
yet to send to the town, and his agent there