The lad was walking over one parched meadow with the hazel twig in his hand, when his father came upon the procession--everybody belonging to the farm was out with him.

Weston, I heard, went purple when he saw what was going on, and, from his point of view, his indignation was perhaps comprehensible.

His son was openly, before one of the tenants and a parcel of farm-hands, making use of a superstitious device in which no sane person could believe.

Weston, as I remember it, compared him to a gipsy fortune-teller, and went on through the gamut of impostor, mountebank and charlatan, before he commanded him to desist on the moment.

I don't quite know what came next, though something was said about a lifted riding-crop, but within the week Clarence started for Canada." "He abandoned the attempt to find water ?" Ainslie smiled.
"The farmer dug a well in that meadow, and I believe he uses it still.
He held a lease, and Weston couldn't get rid of him." He looked rather hard at Ida, and was slightly astonished at the sparkle in her eyes.
"I'm afraid I've been somewhat talkative," he said.
"No," Ida assured him, and he saw that she was stirred.