Margaret Vincent

stleigh, well known in his day, fascinating and happy-go-lucky, who, when he had spent his patrimony in extravagant living, and dis

nd, finding London impossible, went a-ranching with his wife on the other side of the world. There the life and its isolati

two hundred a year, inherited from his mother. His habits were indolent, his tastes simple. The one desire left him after the crash was to get out of everybody's sight, to think, and to smoke his pipe in peace, and presently perhaps to write a book in which he could freely express the bitterness packed away at the bottom of his heart and soul. He travelled for a few years, and thus lost sight, much to their satisfaction, of all his distant relations (near ones, with the exception of his brother, he had none), dro

itating and almost impossible. One day he packed a knapsack, filled his pouch, walked through Putney and Wandsworth and onward. He breathed more freely when he reached Wimbledon, which had then an almost rustic railwa

ox, but stamps have to be bought at Haslemere or of the local postman. There is not even a smithy, man and beast must alike travel three good miles to be reshod-to the blacksmith's near the cobbler's on the common. A little way from the village, standing high among the wooded land on the right, is the church. It is half covered with ivy; there are white tombstones round it, and on its square to

idy drive you can catch a glimpse of the Dutch garden, with its green paths and yew hedges, its roses and sweet peas. The house is an old one; moss and ivy and lichen grown; a porch, with a seat in it, to the front door, and latticed panes to the window. The door opens into a square hall or living-place, red tiled and black beamed. On either side of the big fireplace there used to be a heavy wooden chair with carved and substantial arms and a red cushion tied on its back; in the centre of the room a large oak table; against the wall a dresser, an old chest, an eight-day clock, and a portrait of Queen Victoria in her coronation robes. It was here

ed from father to son, or mother to daughter, for full two hundred years. The tradition was likely to be kept up, since at well-turned

of the child. After all, too, the service at Chidhurst was a strictly evangelical one-the sermon had been known to last near upon fifty minutes, and something has to be conceded to those who hold property in their own right. Unluckily, when she was eight years old, her father being delicate, and she in the way at home, Hannah went to stay at Petersfield. Her grandfather, a stern old Methodist, initiated habits and imbued her with notions that took deep root

llage of Chidhurst, and was charmed by it. He looked carefully from right to left, hesitat

e trees, just as you come to the church. It was built for a vica

use," the stranger

ack called out, "There'

ok ill; but I dare say she'll be glad to get somebody. You go past the church and along the

were a somebody, Mrs. Barton told herself later. His manner was a little awkward for the moment, but in his eye was courteous inquiry. The widow stopped and criticised him with quiet excitement, while he thought how good a picture she made with the sunflowers and sweet peas on either side of her, and the rose-bushes and patches of white linen spread out

st distinction about the widow; it made him feel that if there were any social difference between them the advantage was on her side. She stood at first beside the oak table, and then was persuaded to sit, and she made a picture, framed in one of the big arm-chairs, that he never forgot, while she explained that there was a spare room that had not been slept in for three years past, and the best parlor that had n

together; but it was a long time before it was other than rather awkward and even formal talk. Sometimes as he passed through the house to his own rooms he stopped to notice Hannah; but she was always ill at ease with him, and hurried away as fast as possi

n known to come so far, and even such a thing as a fire might happen. So when she departed in her alpaca gown with crape trimmings, her widow's cap inside her bonnet, and her prayer-book and black-edged handkerchief (she had six of a goodly size and serviceable thickness) in her hand, across the fields with Hannah by the short cut to the church, it was with a sense of calm contentment. Mr. Vincent used to stand in the porch and watch them start; then, filling his pipe, he smoked in peace, and revelled in the extra quiet of the Sabbath day. The incu