"The 'faire Una' can enlighten you," said the doctor, waving his hand
towards his little favourite in the corner,--"but I forgot!--Well, if you
don't know, the crops won't come in--that's all the difference."

But Mrs. Rossitur looked anxiously at her husband. "Do you know exactly
what you are undertaking, Rolf?" she said.

"If I do not, I presume I shall discover in time."

"But it may be too late," said Mrs Rossitur, in the tone of sad
remonstrance that had gone all the length it dared.

"It _can not_ be too late!" said her husband impatiently. "If I do not
know what I am taking up, I know very well what I am laying down; and it
does not signify a straw what comes after--if it was a snail-shell, that
would cover my head!"

"Hum--" said the old doctor,--"the snail is very well in his way, but I
have no idea that he was ever cut out for a farmer."

"Do you think you will find it a business you would like, Mr. Rossitur?"
said his wife timidly.

"I tell you," said he facing about, "it is not a question of liking. I
will like anything that will bury me out of the world!"

Poor Mrs. Rossitur. She had not yet come to wishing herself buried alive,
and she had small faith in the permanence of her husband's taste for it.
She looked desponding.