Discontented as he was, the expression hereinbefore written would have seemed profane to young Fielding, for a farmer’s farm and a sailor’s ship have always something sacred in the sufferer’s eyes, though one sends one to jail, and the other the other to Jones.

It was four hundred acres, all arable, and most of it poor sour land.  George’s father had one hundred acres grass with it, but this had been separated six years ago.

There was not a tree, nor even an old stump to show for this word “Grove.”

But in the country oral tradition still flourishes.

There had been trees in “The Grove,” only the title had outlived the timber a few centuries.

On the morning of our tale George Fielding might have been seen near his own homestead, conversing with the Honorable Frank Winchester.

This gentleman was a character that will be common some day, but was nearly unique at the date of our story.

He had not an extraordinary intellect, but he had great natural gayety, and under that he had enormous good sense; his good sense was really brilliant, he had a sort of universal healthy mind that I can’t understand how people get.

He was deeply in love with a lady who returned his passion, but she was hopelessly out of his reach, because he had not much money or expectations; instead of sitting down railing, or sauntering about whining, what did me the Honorable Frank Winchester?  He looked over England for the means of getting this money, and not finding it there, he surveyed the globe and selected Australia, where, they told him, a little money turns to a deal, instead of dissolving in the hand like a lozenge in the mouth, as it does in London.

So here was an earl’s son (in this age of commonplace events) going to Australia with five thousand pounds, as sheep farmer and general speculator.

He was trying hard to persuade George Fielding to accompany him as bailiff or agricultural adviser and manager.

He knew the young man’s value, but to do him justice his aim was not purely selfish; he was aware that Fielding had a bad bargain in “The Grove,” and the farmer had saved his life at great personal risk one day that he was seized with cramp bathing in the turbid waters of Cleve millpool, and he wanted to serve him in return.  This was not his first attempt of the kind, and but for one reason perhaps he might have succeeded.

“You know me and I know you,” said Mr. Winchester to George Fielding; “I must have somebody to put me in the way.  Stay with me one year, and after that I’ll square accounts with you about that thundering millpool.”

“Oh!  Mr. Winchester,” said George, hastily and blushing like fire, “that’s an old story, sir?” with a sweet little half-cunning smile that showed he was glad it was not forgotten.

“Not quite,” replied the young gentleman dryly; “you shall have five hundred sheep and a run for them, and we will both come home rich and consequently respectable.”