And they had gone another mile before he added: 

“We’ve got to make our round again; that’s all.”

The words of Mr. Pogram, ‘You have influence, young man,’ were just.  There was about Derek the sort of quality that belongs to the good regimental officer; men followed and asked themselves why the devil they had, afterward.  And if it be said that no worse leader than a fiery young fool can be desired for any movement, it may also be said that without youth and fire and folly there is usually no movement at all.

Late in the afternoon they returned home, dead beat.  That evening the farmers and their wives milked the cows, tended the horses, did everything that must be done, not without curses.  And next morning the men, with Gaunt and a big, dark fellow, called Tulley, for spokesmen, again proffered their demand.  The agent took counsel with Malloring by wire.  His answer, “Concede nothing,” was communicated to the men in the afternoon, and received by Gaunt with the remark:  “I thart we should be hearin’ that.  Please to thank Sir Gerald.  The men concedes their gratitood.” . . .

That night it began to rain.  Nedda, waking, could hear the heavy drops pattering on the sweetbrier and clematis thatching her open window.  The scent of rain-cooled leaves came in drifts, and it seemed a shame to sleep.  She got up; put on her dressing-gown, and went to thrust her nose into that bath of dripping sweetness.  Dark as the clouds had made the night, there was still the faint light of a moon somewhere behind.  The leaves of the fruit-trees joined in the long, gentle hissing, and now and again rustled and sighed sharply; a cock somewhere, as by accident, let off a single crow.  There were no stars.  All was dark and soft as velvet.  And Nedda thought:  ’The world is dressed in living creatures!  Trees, flowers, grass, insects, ourselves—­woven together—­the world is dressed in life!  I understand Uncle Tod’s feeling!  If only it would rain till they have to send these strike-breakers back because there’s no hay worth fighting about!’ Suddenly her heart beat fast.  The wicket gate had clicked.  There was something darker than the darkness coming along the path!  Scared, but with all protective instinct roused, she leaned out, straining to see.  A faint grating sound from underneath came up to her.  A window being opened!  And she flew to her door.  She neither barred it, however, nor cried out, for in that second it had flashed across her:  ‘Suppose it’s he!  Gone out to do something desperate, as Tryst did!’ If it were, he would come up-stairs and pass her door, going to his room.  She opened it an inch, holding her breath.  At first, nothing!  Was it fancy?  Or was some one noiselessly rifling the room down-stairs?  But surely no one would steal of Uncle Tod, who, everybody knew, had nothing valuable.  Then came a sound as of bootless feet pressing the stairs stealthily!  And the thought darted through her, ’If it isn’t he, what shall I do?’ And then—­’What shall I do—­if it is!’