l awver an' done."

Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the deserted
chambers. In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and
windows unclean. Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked
hearthstone, and a pair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last
tenant, stood on the window-sill. Dust and filth were everywhere, but no
indication of dampness or decay.

"A proper auld rogue's-roost of dirt 'tis just now," said Will; "but a
few pound spent in the right way will do a deal for it."

"An' soap an' water more," declared Mrs. Blanchard, escaping from her
reverie. "What's to be spent landlord must spend," she continued. "A
little whitewash, and some plaster to fill them holes wheer woodwork's
poking through the ceiling, an' you'll be vitty again. 'Tis
lonesome-like now, along o' being deserted, an' you'll hear the rats
galloping an' gallyarding by night, but 'twill soon be all it was
again--a dear li'l auld plaace, sure enough!"

She eyed the desolation affectionately.

"Theer's money in it, any way, for what wan man can do another can."

"Aye, I hope so, I b'lieve 'tis so; but you'll have to live hard, an'
work hard, an' be hard, if you wants to prosper here. Your gran'faither
stood to the work like a giant, an' the sharpest-fashion weather hurt
him no worse than if he'd been a granite tor. Steel-built to his heart's
core, an' needed to be."

"An' I be a stern, far-seein' man, same as him. 'Tis generally knawn I'm
no fule; and my heart's grawed hard, tu of late days, along wi' the
troubles life's brought."

She shook her head.

"You'm your faither's son, not your gran'faither's. Tim was flesh an'
blood, same as you. T'other was stone. Stone's best, when you've got to
fight wi' stone; but if flesh an' blood suffers more, it joys more, tu.
I wouldn't have 'e differ'nt--not to them as loves 'e, any way."

"I sha'n't change; an' if I did to all the world else, 'twouldn't be to
you, mother. You knaw that, I reckon. I'm hopeful; I'm more; I'm 'bout
as certain of fair fortune as a man can be. Venwell rights[6] be mine,
and theer's no better moorland grazing than round these paarts. The
farm-land looks a bit foul, along o' being let go to rack, but us'll
soon have that clean again, an' some gude stuff into it, tu. My awn
work'll be staring me in the faace before summer; an' by the time Phoebe
do come to be mistress, nobody'll knaw Newtake, I promise 'e."

[6] _Venwell rights_ = Ve