stood such crops of wheat as had never previously been seen.  These he sold, as they stood, by auction; and no sooner had the purchasers cleared the ground than the engines went to work again, tearing up the earth.  His meadow lands were irrigated by the centrifugal pump, and yielded three crops instead of one.  His shorthorns began to get known—­for he spared no expense upon them—­and already one or two profitable sales had been held.  His sheep prospered; there was not so much noise made about them, but, perhaps, they really paid better than anything.

Meantime, Cecil kept open house, with wine and refreshments, and even beds for everybody who chose to come and inspect his place.  Nothing gave him such delight as to conduct visitors over the estate and to enter into minute details of his system.  As for the neighbouring farmers they were only too welcome.  These things became noised abroad, and people arrived from strange and far-off places, and were shown over this Pioneer’s Farm, as Cecil loved to call it.  His example was triumphantly quoted by every one who spoke on agricultural progress.  Cecil himself was the life and soul of the farmers’ club in the adjacent market town.  It was not so much the speeches he made as his manner.  His enthusiasm was contagious.  If a scheme was started, if an experiment was suggested, Cecil’s cheque-book came out directly, and the thing was set on foot without delay.  His easy, elastic step, his bright eye, his warm, hearty handshake, seemed to electrify people—­to put some of his own spirit into them.  The circle of his influence was ever increasing—­the very oldest fogeys, who had prophesied every kind of failure, were being gradually won over.

Cecil himself was transcendently happy in his work; his mind was in it; no exertion, no care or trouble, was too much.  He worked harder than any navvy, and never felt fatigue.  People said of him—­’What a wonderful man!’ He was so genuine, so earnest, so thorough, men could not choose but believe in him.  The sun shone brightly, the crops ripened, the hum of the threshing-machine droned on the wind—­all was life and happiness.  In the summer evenings pleasant groups met upon the lawn; the song, the jest went round; now and then an informal dance, arranged with much laughter, whiled away the merry hours till the stars appeared above the trees and the dew descended.

Yet to-day, as the two leaned over the little gate in the plantation and looked down upon the reapers, the deep groove which continual thought causes was all too visible on Cecil’s forehead.  He explained to the officer how his difficulties had come about.  His first years upon the farm or estate—­it was really rather an estate than a farm—­had been fairly prosperous, notwithstanding the immense outlay of capital.  A good percentage, in some cases a high-rate of percentage, had been returned upon the money put into the soil.  The seasons were good, the crops large and superabundant.  Men’s minds were full of confidence, they bought freely, and were launching out in all directions.