But as he sat on the wooden roller under the shade of a tree and thought these things, listening to the rustle of the golden wheat as it moved in the breeze, he pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, and glanced down a long, long list of farms to let.  Then he remembered that his pass-book at the bank showed a very respectable row of figures, buttoned up his coat, and strolled homeward with a smile on his features.  The date fixed for the sale, as announced by the poster on the barn, came round, and a crowd gathered to see the last of the old tenant.  Old Hodge viewed the scene from a distance, resting against a gate, with his chin on his hand.  He was thinking of the days when he first went to plough, years ago, under Smith’s father.  If Smith had been about to enter on another farm old Hodge would have girded up his loins, packed his worldly goods in a waggon, and followed his master’s fortunes thither.  But Smith was going to live on his capital awhile; and old Hodge had already had notice to quit his cottage.  In his latter days he must work for a new master.  Down at the sale young Hodge was lounging round, hands in pocket, whistling—­for there was some beer going about.  The excitement of the day was a pleasurable sensation, and as for his master he might go to Kansas or Hong-Kong.

CHAPTER III

A MAN OF PROGRESS

The sweet sound of rustling leaves, as soothing as the rush of falling water, made a gentle music over a group of three persons sitting at the extremity of a lawn.  Upon their right was a plantation or belt of trees, which sheltered them from the noonday sun; on the left the green sward reached to the house; from the open window came the rippling notes of a piano, and now and again the soft accents of the Italian tongue.  The walls of the garden shut out the world and the wind—­the blue sky stretched above from one tree-top to another, and in those tree-tops the cool breeze, grateful to the reapers in the fields, played with bough and leaf.  In the centre of the group was a small table, and on it some tall glasses of antique make, and a flask of wine.  By the lady lay a Japanese parasol, carelessly dropped on the grass.  She was handsome, and elegantly dressed; her long drooping eyelashes fringed eyes that were almost closed in luxurious enjoyment; her slender hand beat time to the distant song.  Of the two gentlemen one was her brother—­the other, a farmer, her husband.  The brother wore a pith helmet, and his bronzed cheek told of service under tropical suns.  The husband was scarcely less brown; still young, and very active-looking, you might guess his age at forty; but his bare forehead (he had thrown his hat on the ground) was marked with the line caused by involuntary contraction of the muscles when thinking.  There was an air of anxiety, of restless feverish energy, about him.  But just for the moment he was calm and happy, turning over the pages of a book.  Suddenly he looked up, and began to declaim, in a clear, sweet voice: