in the land I'll have it."

Meanwhile, Pete, with the dull thud in his ears of earth falling on a
coffin, had made his way down to Ballawhaine. He had never been there
before, and he felt confused, but he did not tremble. Half-way up the
carriage-drive he passed a sandy-haired youth of his own age, a slim
dandy who hummed a tune and looked at him carelessly over his shoulder.
Pete knew him--he was Boss, the boys called him Dross, son and heir of
Christian Ballawhaine.

At the big house Pete asked for the master. The English footman, in
scarlet knee-breeches, left him to wait in the stone hall. The place was
very quiet and rather cold, but all as clean as a gull's wing. There was
a dark table in the middle and a high-backed chair against the wall. Two
oil pictures faced each other from opposite sides. One was of an old man
without a beard, but with a high forehead, framed around with short grey
hair. The other was of a woman with a tired look and a baby on her lap.
Under this there was a little black picture that seemed to Pete to be
the likeness of a fancy tombstone. And the print on it, so far as Pete
could spell it out, was that of a tombstone too, "In loving memory of
Verbena, beloved wife of Peter Chr--"

The Ballawhaine came crunching the sand on the hall-floor. He looked
old, and had now a pent-house of bristly eyebrows of a different colour
from his hair. Pete had often seen him on the road riding by.

"Well, my lad, what can I do for _you?_" he said. He spoke in a jerky
voice, as if he thought to overawe the boy.

Pete fumbled his stocking cap. "Mothers dead," he answered vacantly.

The Ballawhaine knew that already. Kelly the Thief had run hot-foot to
inform him. He thought Pete had come to claim maintenance now that his
mother was gone.

"So she's been telling you the same old story?" he said briskly.