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INTERMEDIATE MICROECONOMICS AND ITS
APPLICATION 11TH
FULL CHAPTER DOWNLOAD AT:
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INTERMEDIATE-MICROECONOMICS-AND-ITS-APPLICATION-11TH-EDITION-
BY-NICHOLSON/
CHAPTER 1
Economic Models
A. Summary
This chapter provides a methodological introduction to the book by showing
why economists use simplified models. The chapter begins with a few
definitions of economics and then turns to a discussion of economic models.
Development of Marshall's analysis of supply and demand is the principle
example of such a model here, and this provides a review for students of what
they learned in introductory economics. The notion of how shifts in supply or
demand curves affect equilibrium prices is highlighted and is repeated in the
chapter’s appendix in a somewhat more formal way. The chapter also reminds
students of the production possibility frontier concept and shows how it
illustrates opportunity costs. The chapter concludes with a discussion of how
economic models might be verified. A brief description of the distinction
between positive and normative analysis is also presented.
1
2 Chapter 1: Economic Models
APPENDIX TO CHAPTER 1
Mathematics Used in
Microeconomics
A. Summary
This appendix provides a review of basic algebra with a specific focus on the
graphical tools that students will encounter later in the text. The coverage of
linear and quadratic equations here is quite standard and should be familiar
to students. Two concepts that will be new to some students are graphing
contour lines and simultaneous equations. The discussion of contour lines
seeks to introduce students to the indifference curve concept through the
contour map analogy.
Although students may not have graphed such a family of curves for a
many-variable function before, this introduction seems to provide good
preparation for the economic applications that follow.
The analysis of simultaneous equations presented in the appendix is
intended to illustrate how the solution to two linear equations in two unknowns
is reflected graphically by the intersection of the two lines. Although students
may be familiar with solving simultaneous equations through substitution or
subtraction, this graphical approach may not be so well known. Because such
graphic solutions lead directly to the economic concept of supply-demand
equilibrium, however, I believe it is useful to introduce this method of solution
to students. Showing how a shift in one of the equations changes the solutions
for both variables is particularly instructive in that regard. In that regard,
some material at the end of the appendix makes the distinction between
endogenous and exogenous variables – a distinction that many students
stumble over.
The appendix also contains a few illustrations of calculus-type results.
Depending on student preparation, instructors might wish to pick up on this
and use a few calculus ideas in later chapters. But this is not a calculus-
based text, so there is no need to do this.
b. Yes, the points seem to be on straight lines. For the demand curve: P = 1
Q = –100
4 Chapter 1: Economic Models
Q
Pa
100
at P 1, Q 700, so a 8 and
Q
P 8 or Q 800 100 P
100
For the supply curve, the points also seem to be on a straight line:
P 1
Q 200
Q
If P a bQ a
200
at P = 2, Q = 300, 2 = – a + 1.5, or a = 0.5.
Q
Hence the equation is P 0.5 or Q 200 P 100
200
c,d For supply Q = 200P – 100
If P = 0, Q = –100 = 0 (since negative supply is impossible).
If P = 6, Q = 1100.
For demand Q=800-100P
When P = 0, Q = 800.
When P = 6, Q = 200.
Excess Demand at P = 0 is 800.
Excess supply at P = 6 is 1100 – 200 = 900
c.
1.3
a. Excess Demand is the following at the various prices
P 1 ED 700 100 600
P 2 ED 600 300 300
P 3 ED 500 500 0
P 4 ED 400 700 300
P 5 ED 300 900 600
The auctioneer found the equilibrium price where ED = 0.
c. Many callout auctions operate this way – though usually quantity supplied is a fixed
amount. Many financial markets operate with “bid” and “asked” prices which approximate
the procedure in part b.
1.4 The complaint is essentially correct – in many economic models price is the
independent variable and quantity is the dependent variable. Marshall originally
chose this approach because he found it easier to draw cost curves (an essential
element of supply theory) with quantity on the horizontal axis. In that case, quantity
can legitimately be treated as the independent variable.
P
10
2
D
Q
4 10
c. The following figure graphs the demand and supply curves with P on the
horizontal axis. Solution proceeds as in Part b.
Q
10
P
2 6 10
d. The equations can be graphed either way and will yield the same solution.
e. Reasons for preferring one over the other are not readily apparent in these
drawings. As we shall see, however, developing demand and supply curves from
8 Chapter 1: Economic Models
1.5
c.
I T Marginal Tax Rate
10,000 1,000
10,001 1,000.20 .20
30,000 9,000
30,001 9,000.60 .60
50,000 25,000
50,001 25,001 1.00
1.7 a.
1.8 a. If Y = 0, X = 10
If X= 0, Y = 5
b.
X Y
2 24
4 21
6 4
X2 Y2
1 is a quarter of an ellipse since both X and Y are positive.
100 25
c. The opportunity cost depends on the levels of output because the slope of a
curve is not constant.
d. The opportunity cost of X is the change in Y when one more unit of X is
produced.
Example: X0 = 3, X1 = 4
When X0 = 3,Y0 = 9½
When X1 = 4,Y1 = 21
[Y1 – Y0] = .187
.187 units of Y are "given up" to produce one more unit of X at X = 3.
2 2
1.9 a. X + 4Y = 100
2
If X = Y, then 5X = 100 and X = 20 and Y = 20 .
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Chapter 1: Economic Models 11
c. None of the other points on the Y = 4 contour line obey the linear equation.
This is so because the contour line is convex and hits the straight line at only a
single tangency.
e. Yes, many points on the line X 4Z 10 provide a higher value for Y (any
points between the two identified in part d do). The largest value for Y is at
the point X = 5, Z = 5/4. In this case Y = 25/4 = 6.25.
"I've stopped the cuckoo clock," explained William, "because the noise
vexed him. We'll be still as death to-night, for silence is physic in itself."
He ate and drank and she bade him take a stiff glass of spirits and water.
"You've done wonders, and I'll never forget it, and no more will father
when he's well again," declared Auna. "You smoke your pipe now and have
a rest down here, and I'll fetch up the easy, wicker chair, so you'll sit up
there comfortable. But you mustn't smoke in his room, Mr. Marydrew."
She went out presently, to feed the ponies, while William lit his pipe,
with an ear cocked lest the sufferer should wake.
"Dark and still, and a fox barking far ways off," said Auna when she
returned.
Jacob did not wake till nearly midnight and then they wrestled with him
for an hour, but made him take his food and physic. He was in agony, yet
his mind seemed a little clearer and he restrained himself. Then fever
dreams swept over him. Under the light of the shaded lamp, hidden in a
corner, he could see his daughter, and still he believed her Margery; but
Margery come from beyond the grave. He thought his wife's spirit was
beside him and the belief acted as an anodyne.
"Say you've come for me! Say you've come for me! Say you are going
to forgive me and fetch me home!" he cried. And then Auna saw that he
wept; so she bent over him and wiped away his tears. Her own fell, too, and
when he had lapsed again into insensibility, she crept away and sobbed
silently in a corner. This happened in the dead of the night and William,
despite his resolutions, was sound asleep beside the fire at the time. She was
glad that he slept and had not seen her cry.
She pulled herself together and took heart, mended the fire and sat alert
between the two unconscious men while the long night drained away.
Jacob did not waken until four o'clock, with a shout that brought
William to his feet.
"Dang my old wig, if I haven't had forty winks," he said, "why for did
you let me drop off, Auna?"
CHAPTER XI
JACOB LIVES
A trained nurse arrived before noon on the following day and Dr.
Cousins drove her up. The physician found that Jacob was responding to his
remedies and no special symptoms of any gravity had appeared. The
disease promised to run its course, but whether it would destroy the patient
remained to be seen. He was dangerously ill and still delirious. Jacob could
not state his case, but the doctor inclined to hope that he suffered less of
acute pain. He assured Auna that she had every reason to be hopeful and the
nurse, at a later hour in the day, declared the same. She was chiefly
concerned with the sick man's reserves of strength and, seeing his powerful
frame, felt sanguine.
William went home on his pony after the doctor's visit, and an hour later
John Henry and Peter came up together, bringing fresh milk and other
comforts. They did not see their father, but they stopped with Auna for an
hour or two and spoke of the Huxams.
Great decisions had been made and their grandparents were returning to
the post-office, while Jeremy and Jane would occupy the new house for the
present, until the time came to let it furnished for the summer.
John Henry now saw through his uncle and spoke scornfully of him.
"Yes—else she wouldn't go. I believe she's been at a loose end ever
since she left the shop. She hates doing nothing and being waited on. It's
contrary to her nature, and she's been very queer lately and frightened
grandfather off and on. She'll be jolly glad to get back into the midst of
things, and so will he. There's a lot of work in 'em both yet and it's good for
their money and for the rest of the family that they're going back. There
wouldn't have been any business left if Uncle Jeremy had messed about
there much longer."
"To think we thought him such a wonder when we were little!" said
Peter.
"When you get up to be a man yourself, you soon see what most men
are worth," answered John Henry. "He'll never do anything and, if his
children are like him, they'll all go in the workhouse soon or late; and if
they're workers, then he'll live on them come he grows old."
Auna asked after her sister and heard that she was well. Then the
brothers departed and Peter promised to return ere long.
"In about three days Nurse Woolcombe says we shall know for certain if
father's going to live," Auna told them; "but I know now. I'm positive sure
he's going to live."
"It will be the turning point for father perhaps," thought Peter. "He
might quiet down after a shaking like this."
Jacob Bullstone suffered for many days and it was a fortnight before
Auna could find herself sleeping natural sleep and waking without dread.
The sick man mended and fell back again. His strength wore down and a
first relapse found him in the gravest danger, for his heart was weary. But
he pulled up again with devoted nursing and skilled attention. To Auna,
Nurse Woolcombe became as a goddess, and she sealed a friendship with
the widow that lasted for life. They worked together and the younger was
skilful and understanding.
His face was white and a growth of beard also helped to disguise the
countenance they knew; but his great, dark eyes no longer roamed restlessly
over them. They were dimmed by much pain, yet they were gentle and
steady. He spoke little and his voice had weakened to a whisper; but he
listened and nodded affirmation. His chief concern was with Avis.
"The child's due," said John Henry, "and she's very well, so Bob tells
me."
"John Henry and Peter," he said—"my two sons come up to see me.
That's good."
"And lots to show you when you're about again, father. You'll be
surprised at 'Red House Rover's' new puppies."
"The old dog ran home. He thought I was going to die; but he didn't
bargain for doctor and Auna. They've saved me I suppose."
"The Lord of Hosts have saved you, father," declared John Henry, who
had great faith in his God.
They left him and told Auna that they were well pleased and that he had
been kind to them.
"He won't die now; but I expect he'll be a bed-lier for evermore. You've
got to face that, Auna," said John Henry.
"So long as he lives till he's at peace, nothing else matters," she
answered. "But he'll be better than a bed-lier. Nurse says he'll walk in a
month and get back his nature mighty quick, when he can eat strong food
again."
Jacob mended slowly and the weather held against him, for the spring
was harsh and chill. The light increased with the cold and early March
found snow on the moors and a harsh spell of wind from the north-east. The
doctor begged Jacob to return to Red House, that his cure might be
hastened; but this he declined to do. He was calm and patient now, though
very weak. He liked to be alone and he expressed a great desire to see
William Marydrew.
Then came good news and Auna had the joy of telling him.
"Avis has got a girl baby, father; and 'tis a beautiful, perfect little child
with Bob's eyes. And Avis is doing well and the baby's going to be called
'Margery.' And Margery Elvin's a pretty name Nurse Woolcombe says; and
so it is."
The news did Bullstone good service and occupied his mind.
"It never rains but it pours, father," she said. "I've had a letter to-day—a
letter from Great-Uncle Lawrence Pulleyblank. His writing's gone very
spindley and up and down, because he's so old; but when you're equal to it
he wants you to travel to Plymouth for the sea air; and if you won't go, then
he wants for me to go, when you can spare me for a week or two."
She began to speak, but stopped, since her words would have to deal
with the incidents of her mother's death.
"No, no; but thank the man. You shall go to him. I won't be so selfish
about you as I have been. I've kept your light under a bushel too long,
because you were all I had left. Others must share you, I reckon. You're pale
as a davered rose through so much nursing. You shall go presently and
make a good holiday with the old chap."
He asked constantly for William, and hoped that each fine day might
bring him.
"I've got a wonderful thing to tell him, that only such a man would
understand," he explained to Nurse Woolcombe.
They concealed the fact that Mr. Marydrew had been ill with bronchitis.
Then Auna went to see him and was able to tell her father that Billy had
returned to health, after a chill.
"He's all right and is coming up the first soft day in May," she promised.
Jacob himself began to regain strength, and there fell a morning when
Auna went to Brent to bid a barber climb to Huntingdon and shave him.
"He's a proper ghost, and you mustn't be frightened, Mr. Prynn," she
said; "but he's going on all right, and now he's wishful to have his beard
away."
Yet, before the barber came, Jacob changed his mind again.
At last William arrived and Jacob greeted him with affection. The old
man and Auna sat one on each side of his chair and Auna held her father's
hand.
"A far different creature from what I left," he said. "Then you was a
burning, fiery furnace, my dear. But now you be glad for a bit of fire
outside yourself. Can you catch heat from it?"
"Only the tubes," explained William. "My tubes was filled up, so as I
had to fight for air a bit; but us old oaks takes a lot of throwing. I'm good
for another summer anyway. Spring's afoot down the vale."
"I've had great thoughts in the shadow of death, William. I've come
through, as you see, and shall live a bit longer. At death's door I knocked
and they wouldn't let me enter in. You can't get so close, though, without
learning many things. Yet I wouldn't be without what I know. It points to
peace—a withered sort of peace, where no hope is."
"You can't live without hope, my dear man. It's so needful as the air you
breathe."
"Yes, you can live without it; you can do your duty without it. I heard a
laugh yesterday night—'twas myself. Nature made me laugh, because to be
without hope is almost beyond reason, and anything outside reason makes
us laugh."
"I thought to find you'd thrown over all these silly fancies," he said.
"You must keep a hand on yourself, Jacob, now you've come through and
are going to live. It's bad to laugh when there's nothing to laugh at. You
mustn't do that. Emma Andrews laughed for three days; and she went down
to the river and drowned herself on the fourth."
"I'm all right. Between ourselves, Billy, I had bats in the belfry for a
time after my wife died. I know it now and I'm surprised that none marked
it. After the trial came a great flash of light to my mind. From within it
came and made all the past look dark—burned it to dust and cinders. Only
the future mattered, and it wasn't the judge and jury showed me I had been
wrong—it wasn't them at all. It was the flash of light. Then hope got hold
on me like a giant and I hoped too much. That was my punishment—to
hope too much and not see hope had died. But my sickness has drained the
poison out of me, and though my frame is weak, my brain is clear. I see and
I can put things together. I've come to a great thought—a shattering thing
but true."
"No—truth is seldom comforting. But it puts firm ground under you and
shows you where to stand and how to protect yourself against hope. I'm a
well-educated man, William, and though I've fallen far below all that I was
taught as a boy, I've risen again now. But life's too short for most of us to
learn how to live it. Too short to get away from our feelings, or look at it all
from outside. But I can now. I've reached to that. I can look at myself, and
skin myself, and feel no more than if I was peeling a potato."
"No; but my heart goes out to her. Don't look fearful: I'm all right. I
haven't done with my children, or their children. I'm human still. I can take
stock of myself, thanks to my forgotten wisdom—lost when Margery died,
and found again. A bit ago I was growing awful cold. I felt not unkindly to
the world, you must know, but cold was creeping into me, body and soul. I
didn't love as I used, nor hate as I used, nor care as I used. I didn't want to
see what I couldn't see, nor do what I couldn't do. All was fading out in a
cold mist. Then I had my great illness, and there was no more mist, and I
began to link up again with the world. Nothing could have done it but that.
And then I got the bird's-eye view denied to most of us, but reached by me
through great trials.
"For look at it, Billy. First there was my faulty nature and little
experience. No experience of life—an only son, kept close by loving
parents—and with the awful proneness to be jealous hid in me, like poison
in a root. Then fate, or chance, to play trick after trick upon me after
marriage and build up, little by little, the signs of my great, fancied wrong.
Signs that another man would have laughed at, but proofs—deadly proofs
of ruin to my jaundiced sight. And the cunning, the craft to heap these
things on my head—all shadows to a sane man; but real as death to me!
First one, then another—each a grain of sand in itself, but growing,
growing, till the heap was too heavy for me to bear.
"And whose work was it? 'God' you say, since He's responsible for all
and willed it so. God, to plan a faulty man and start him to his own
destruction; God, to make me love a woman with a mother like Margery's,
so that, when the wounds might be healed, there was that fiend ever ready
and willing and watchful to keep 'em open. God, to will that I should never
hear my wife forgive me, though she had forgiven me; God, to let her die
before I could get to her and kneel at her feet!
"No, William, a tale like this leaves a man honest, or else mad. And I'll
be honest and say that no loving, merciful, all-powerful Father ever treated
his children so. Mark how calm I am—no fury, no lamentation, no rage
now. Just clear sight to see and show the way of my downfall. Your God
could have given me a pinch of fine character to save me. He could have
made me more generous, more understanding of my pure wife, less
suspicious, less secret, less proud, less mean. He could have built me not to
head myself off from everything and bring back night and ruin on my head.
But no.
"Can fifty next worlds undo the work of this one? Can eternity alter
what I did and what she suffered here? The next world's no way out,
William. The balance isn't struck there, because evil never can turn into
good, either in earth, or heaven. You can wipe away tears, but you can't
wipe away what caused them to flow. And where have I come to now, think
you? Another great light I've seen, like the light that blazed to Paul; but it
blazed a different story to me. When I see a man praising God, I'm
reminded of a mouse that runs to hide in the fur of the cat that's killing it. I
no longer believe in God, William, and I'll tell you why. Because I think too
well of God to believe in Him. D'you understand that? I wish He existed; I
wish we could see His handicraft and feel His love; but let us be brave and
not pretend. The sight of my little life and the greater sight of the whole
world as it is—these things would drive God's self into hell if He was just.
He'd tumble out of His heaven and call on the smoke of the pit to hide Him
and His horrible works. And so I've come to the blessed, grey calm of
knowing that what I suffered there was none to save me from. It's a sign of
the greatness of man that he could give all his hard-won credit to God,
William, and invent a place where justice would be done by a Being far
nobler, finer, truer and stronger than himself. But proofs against are too
many and too fearful. The world's waiting now for another Christ to wake
us to the glory of Man, William, because the time has come when we're old
enough to trust ourselves, and walk alone, and put away childish things. We
deserve a good God—or none."
He uttered kindly thoughts and they talked for an hour together. Then
Auna and William descended to the kitchen and he ate with her. He was
happy at what he had seen rather than at what he had heard.
"Forget all your father says," begged William. "He's going to be a strong
and healthy man. I mark the promise in him. A great victory for doctor and
you and nurse. There's a bit of fever in his mind yet; but the mind be always
the last to clean up again after a great illness. His talk be only the end of his
torments running away—like dirty water after a freshet."
"Do you think, if we could get him down to see Margery Elvin
christened, it would be a useful thing, Mr. Marydrew?" asked Auna, and
William approved the idea.
"By rights he ought to go to Church and thank God for sparing him," he
said. "But, be that as it will, if he saw his grandchild made a faithful
follower and heard a hymn sung out and the organs rolling, it might all help
to do the good work."
"I'll try to bring it about, though it may be a very difficult thing to
manage," she said.
"You make a valiant effort," urged William, "and tell your sister to hold
over the event till her father's man enough to come down and lend a hand."
CHAPTER XII
THE CHRISTENING
On a day six weeks later, Jacob went down among men and, at the
desire of his children, attended the baptism of his grandchild. The families
assembled and the time was afternoon on Sunday. All interested, save
Judith Huxam, were present, and after the ceremony ended, a little company
trailed up the hill to Owley, that they might drink tea together and cut the
christening cake. Avis and Auna walked side by side and Auna carried the
baby; while behind them came Peter, Robert Elvin and his mother. John
Henry had joined his Aunt Jane Huxam and her little boys; Jeremy and
Adam Winter followed them and Jacob Bullstone, with Barlow Huxam,
walked fifty yards in the rear. They talked earnestly together and Barlow
had the more to say.
He was full of great anxieties, yet did not fail to express regret at his
son-in-law's illness and satisfaction that he had been restored to health.
"A triumph for your constitution and the doctor's skill. I've thought
upon you and not left you out of my prayers," he said.
"Yes; I've come through; and it was worth while. Time will show,"
answered Jacob.
"A thoughtful moment, when first you see yourself as grandfather,"
commented Barlow, "and still more so when you've only got to wait till a
little one can talk to hear yourself called 'great-grandfather.' That's how it is
with me now."
"How d'you find yourself taking up the reins at the post-office once
again?"
"The power is still there, thank God," answered Mr. Huxam. "But time
don't stand still. Life goes pretty light with me, but in confidence I may tell
you it doesn't go so light with my wife. You don't understand her and I don't
expect you to do it, Jacob; and she don't understand you; but you've been
through heavy waters; you've brought forth deep things out of darkness, in
Bible words, and I may tell you that all's not right with my wife. She was a
bit cheerfuller at first, when we went back into harness and let Jeremy and
his family go to the residence, but it was a flash in the pan. Judy's brooding
again and speaking in riddles, and I'm much put about for the future—the
future here below I mean—not in the world to come."
"I've hated your wife with a deadlier hate than I thought was in my
nature," he said. "But not now. Before I had my great illness, I always
hoped to see her face to face once more and have speech with her; because I
was much feared of a thing happening, Barlow. I'd meant to see her alone
and warn her, by all that she held sacred, to play fair if she got to Margery
before I did. Such was my blinded sight, then, that I thought it might lie in
her power, if she went on before, to poison my wife's mind in heaven, as
she did on earth, so that if I came I'd still get no forgiveness. But that was
all mist and dream and foolishness, of course. If there was a heaven, there
would be no bearing false witness in it. But there's no heaven and no
meetings and no Margery. It's all one now. Things must be as they are, and
things had to be as they were, because I'm what I am, and Judith Huxam is
what she is."
"A very wrongful view," replied Huxam. "But, for the minute, your
feelings are beside the question, Jacob, and I'm not faced in my home with
any fog like that, but hard facts. And very painful and tragical they may
prove for me and all my family. You'll understand that she never could
forgive the fearful day we journeyed to Plymouth—you and me; and she
held that I'd gone a long way to put my soul in peril by taking you there to
see your dying wife. That's as it may be, and I've never been sorry for what
I did myself, and I don't feel that it put a barrier between me and my Maker.
But now the case is altered and I'm faced with a much more serious matter.
Judy don't worry about me no more and she don't worry about any of us,
but, strange to relate, she worries about herself!"
"You might say it was the Christian humility proper to a saint of God;
but this mighty gloom in her brain gets worse. Once, between ourselves, it
rose to terror, at half after three of a morning in last March. She jumped up
from her bed and cried out that Satan was waiting for her in the street.
That's bad, and I spoke to Dr. Briggs behind her back next day."
"Her religion was always full of horrors, and the birds are coming back
to roost."
"That's a very wrong view and I won't grant it," answered Barlow.
"Who can look into the heart of another? Who can know the driving
power behind us?"
"It's not her heart: it's her poor head. Briggs is watching over her and he
don't like it any more than I do. There's a well-known condition of the
human mind called 'religious melancholy,' Jacob; and it's a very dangerous
thing. And it's got to be stopped, or else a worse state may over-get her."
"She looks back and mourns maybe? Perhaps it's only her frozen
humanity thawing with the years."
"She don't look back. Never was a woman less prone to look back. She
looks forward and, owing to this delusion of the mind, she don't like what
she sees and it makes her terrible glum. Her eyes are full of thunder, and her
voice is seldom heard now."
"We reap what we sow."
"Not always. She's walked hand in hand with her God ever since she
came to years of understanding, and it's a hard saying that such a woman
deserved to lose her hope and suffer from a disordered mind."
"It's not a disordered mind that loses hope, Barlow—only a clear one.
Hope's not everything."
"Hope is everything; and if the mind weakens, then the life of the soul
stops and there's nothing left but an idiot body to watch until its end. I've
got to face the chance of Judy's immortal part dying, though her clay may
go on walking the earth for another twenty years; so you'll understand I'm
in pretty deep trouble."
Jacob expressed no great regret, for the things that now entered his mind
he could not, or would not, utter.
"In a lesser one it might be that; but to hear such a woman as her
wondering in the small hours whether, after all, she is redeemed, that's not
conscience—it's a breakdown of the machinery. 'Could I lose my own soul
by saving Margery's?' she asked me once, and such a question of course
means a screw loose."
Bullstone did not answer and Barlow presently feared that he might
have said too much. He sighed deeply.
"Keep this from every human ear," he begged. "I may be wrong. There
may be a high religious meaning in all this that will come to light. We must
trust where only we can trust."
"You'll find where that is, if you live long enough and suffer long
enough," was all the other answered.
A cheerful spirit marked the little celebration at Owley and, for the first
time, Jacob held his granddaughter in his arms. He had brought a gift—a
trinket of silver with a moonstone set in it—that he had purchased before
their marriage for Margery.
Auna and her father walked home together afterwards up the long slope
from Owley to the moor. He was calm and gracious and they spoke of the
girl's coming visit to her great-uncle.
"I wish you'd change your mind even now and come along with me,"
she said. "You'd do Uncle Lawrence good very like."
"No, I shouldn't do him good, and a town's too great a thought for me
yet a while. Not but what I want to do a bit of good, to return a little of all
that's been done for me. But opportunity doesn't lack. I'll get in touch with
my fellow-creatures slow and gradual, one by one. They frighten me too
much all together. They always did; but I'll come back to them, like a ghost,
presently."
"You're not a ghost any more. Look how fine you stood among the
people to-day, and how pleased they were to see you," said Auna.
"But he'll be a chemist next, and he's reading about it already. He says
that the goal's in sight, and he feels that, as a dispensing chemist, he will
come out like the sun from behind a cloud."
"A very ornamental man, but would have done better as a tree, Auna.
There's many a human would have given more pleasure and less trouble as
a tree in a wood."
Auna laughed.
"I shouldn't wonder, if all goes well, whether I don't go down and see
her again when you're away."
"I do hope you will then, and write me a letter to say how you are."
"I shall be full of thinking about you. I have thoughts about you. I am
going to make you happy."
"No, that can't happen; but I'll make you happy another way than that. I
can look ahead as I never did before. It will come in good time. Patience is
greater than happiness. I'll go back into the world some day. But my soul
must be quiet—quite quiet for a little longer yet, Auna, please."
Jeremy came at the appointed time to drive his niece into Brent. She
was going to spend one night with her Aunt Jane at the villa and proceed
next morning to Plymouth. To the last moment she was busy with
arrangements for Jacob's comfort. They had a milch cow at Huntingdon,
and Bullstone milked it himself. A red dog had also settled down with him.
Jeremy was anxious about his mother, but turned to another subject as
he and his niece journeyed down the hills together. Auna had waved her last
farewell to her father and he had waved back. Then Jeremy touched a
personal matter.
"I want for you to sound Uncle Lawrence about his money," he said.
"You're a clever and understanding girl and can be trusted. It's time his
family knew his intentions, Auna, and you might be doing a useful thing if
you were able to get a word out of him."
"I hope he'll live for a long time yet; and when he's got to go, I hope
you'll have the money, if you want it."
"I'm thinking not of myself, but my children, Auna, and your Aunt
Jane."
"I'll send the boys post-card pictures from Plymouth," she promised,
"and I'm hopeful to send some fine fishes to father if I can."
CHAPTER XIII
THE PROMISE
Three men were talking at Shipley Bridge, and one prepared to leave the
others and ascend to the Moor. But he was in no great hurry. Adam Winter
and old William listened to George Middleweek, who had come from Red
House. His talk concerned the Bullstones and he spoke of Peter.
"He's wise for his years, but I laugh to see the real boy moving and
feeling behind the parrot cry of what he's been taught to say and feel. A
young woman has turned him down at Brent. She loves somebody else and
haven't got no use for Peter; and he damns his luck one minute, and the next
says that everything that happens must happen. But it's taking him all his
time to believe it as well as say it, and, meanwhile, nature will out and a
dog or two have had to yelp for Master Peter's troubles. The sorrows of the
dog-breeder be often visited on the dog I reckon."
"Life runs over a lot of innocent dogs, no doubt," said William, "and
leaves 'em mangled and wondering what they've done to be disembowelled,
just as they thought they was being so good and faithful."
"To a man of Peter Bullstone's mind, the thought that a girl could refuse
him is very vexatious I expect," admitted Adam. "His mother's family ain't
out of the wood yet. My Aunt Amelia tells me that Judith Huxam was
catched by Barlow going to the police-station to give herself up for fancied
crimes! It looks like they'll have to put her away."
"No, George. You mustn't say things like that in my hearing, please. All
that happens is part of the pattern, and who can judge of the pattern from
the little piece under his own eye? Not the wittiest man among us."
"Auna wrote me a letter full of woe," William told them. "She's one of
they young hearts from which even us frozen old blids can catch heat. What
d'you think? Her Great-Uncle Pulleyblank's minded to make her his heir,
and she's prayed him to leave his money to her Uncle Jeremy, because he
wants it and she don't! But Pulleyblank knows his Jeremy too well I hope."
The master of Shipley got upon his horse, which stood tethered under an
oak beside the hedge. Then he rode off to climb the waste lands, while the
others went on their way.
Winter had come to dinner with Jacob, and he found him cheerful and
exalted before the thought of his child's return.
"If men, such as you and Marydrew, still think well of it, I don't say but
what I might slip back again to some quiet spot," he said. "I shouldn't feel
that I'd got any right, exactly, to thrust in again among folk—such a thing as
I've grown to be; but if it was only for William's sake, I'd come. He always
held out that I'd be saved for some usefulness, and I'd like to make good his
words."
"I'm a thought clearer sighted than I have been, Adam, and more
patient. How's Samuel? I understand him now so well as you do yourself."
They talked of common interests, but Bullstone grew restless as the sun
went westerly, and he did not seek to stay his guest when the farmer rose to
return.
"No fear of that while you kennel up here. But I hope we shall have you
both down before autumn."