At the time of which we write, William had reached the sober age of thirty-six, and was generally looked upon as a man of substance.
He was surprised one evening to receive a visit from his cousin, Sam Tremail. The young farmer had to make himself known. He did so in rather a clumsy fashion; but then, the task he had set himself was a delicate one, and he had not been trained in the art of diplomacy.
"It seems a pity," Sam said, with a benevolent smile, "that relatives should be as strangers to each other."
"Relationships don't count for much in these days, I fear," William answered cautiously. "Nevertheless, I am glad to see you."
"You think it is every man for himself, eh?" Sam questioned, with a slight blush.
"I don't say it is the philosophy or the practice of every man. But in the main——"
"Yes, I think you are right," Sam interjected, with a sudden burst of candour. "And, really, I don't want you to think that I am absolutely disinterested in riding over from Pentudy to see you."
"It is a long journey for nothing," William said, with a smile.
"Mind you, I have often wanted to know you better," Sam went on. "Father has often spoken of your pluck and perseverance. He admires you tremendously."
"It is very kind of him," William said, with a touch of cynicism in his tones. "I hope he is well. I have not seen him for years."