"They may be reconciled," said Rachel. "We must try to reconcile them."

66 Reconcile Sennacherib Eld!” cried the wife dolefully. "Ah, my dear, you don't know the man. Why, who's that? There's somebody a-walkin' in as if the house belonged to 'em."

A young man in stand-up collars, and trousers supernaturally tight, appeared at the open door and nodded in a casual

manner.

"Mornin', mother," said the young man, cheerfully. "Wheer's the governor?"

Mrs. Sennacherib screamed, and running at the new-comer began to embrace him and to kiss him and cry over him.

"Theer, theer!" he said, after kissing her off-hand. "Tek it easy."

'Oh, Snac!" cried his mother, "if father should come in! What should we do?"

"Do?" said the younger Sennacherib; "why, set me down afore the kitchen fire, an' mek me happetisin' afore he sets to work to eat me. How be you, mum?"

The younger Sennacherib's face was gay and impudent, with that peculiar mingling of gaiety and impudence which seems inseparable from freckles. His face was mottled with freckles, and the backs of his hands were of a dark yellowish brown with them.

"This is Miss Rachel Blythe," said his mother, 66 as was at school with me when I was a gell. This is my poor persecuted child, Miss Blythe."

"Me, mum!" said the persecuted child, standing with his feet wide apart, and bending first one knee and then the other, and then bending both together. "The governor's out, is he?"

"He's only just gone," returned his mother; but, Snac, you'll only anger him comin' in i' this way. You'd better wait a bit and let things blow over."

"Well," said Snac, "I shouldn't ha' come for anythin' but business. But I've got a chance o' doin' a bit o' trade with him. He's had his mind set on Bunch's pony this two ear, an' Bunch an' him bein' at daggers drawn theer was niver a chance to buy it. But me an' him bein' split old Bunch sells me the pony, and I called thinkin' he might like to have it."

He laughed with great glee, and flicked one tightly-clad leg with the whip he carried.

"Wait a bit, Snac," his mother besought him. "Let it blow over a bit afore approachin' him.'

"Wait for the Beacon Hill to blow over!"

said Snac in answer. "I've no more expec tations as the one 'll blow over than th' other. He'll do what he says he'll do. That's the pattern he's made in. I've got no more hopes of turnin' the governor than I should have if I was to go and tell a hox to be a donkey. It's again his natur' to change, and nothing short of a merracle 'll alter him. But as for livin' at enmity with himwheer's the use o' that? He's all the feyther's I've got, or am like to find at my time o' life, and I must just mek the best on him."

"A most commendable and Christian resolution," said Rachel, decisively.

"Very nice and kind of you to say so, mum," Snac answered, setting his hat a little more on one side, and bending both knees with a rakish swagger. "You can tell the governor as I called, mother. The pony's as genuine a bit of blood as is to be found in Heydon Hay. The p'ints of a hoss and a dog is a thing as every child thinks he knows about, but bless your heart, theer's nothing i' the world as is half so difficult t' understand, unless it is the ladies." There was such an air of compliment about the saving clause that Rachel involuntarily inclined her head to it. "You'll tell the governor as I was here, mother," Snac concluded, stooping down to kiss her.

"You mustn't ask me to do that, Snac," she answered. "I dar' not name your name."

"Rubbidge!" said Snac genially. "Does he bite?"

"It's for your sake, Snac," said his mother, "not for mine. But I dar' not

do it."

"Well, well, mayhap I shall light upon him i' the village. If I shouldn't, I'll look in again. Good mornin', mother, and goodday to you, mum. I'm just goin' to drop in on Mr. Ezra Gold, seein' as I'm this way. I'm told he wants to part with that shorthorn cow of hisn, and I'm allays game for a bit o' trade."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Sennacherib, shaking her doleful head. "He'll part with everythin' earthly, poor man, afore he's much older."

66

Well, what road is he takin'?" her son demanded.

"Look at his poor hands," said Mrs. Sennacherib, with a pitying gusto. "As thin as eggshells, and with no more colour in 'em than there is in that chaney saucer. Hark to that dry cough as keeps on a hackhack-hackin' at him."

"Pooh!" cried young Sennacherib. "He's been like that as long as I can remember him."

"Mark my words," his mother answered, with a stronger air of doleful relish than before, "he'll niver be like that much longer."

"Theer's them as looks at the dark side," returned Snac, "and them as looks at the bright. Niver say die till your time comes. I'll go and wake him up a bit, though he's no great hand at a bargain, and seems to find less contentment in gettin' on the blind side of a man than most on 'em. Good mornin', mother. Good mornin', mum."

Snac took his way with a flourish, and his mother looked after the tight-clad legs, the broad shoulders, the tall collars, and the rakish hat with mournful admiration.

"Do you think," asked the little old maid, coughing behind her hand, and looking out of window as she spoke, as if the theme had but little interest for her, "that Mr. Ezra Gold is really unwell?"

66

Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Sennacherib; "he's got enough to last his time, unless it should please the Lord to send him a new and suddener affliction. I've seen a many go the same road. It's mostly the young as bears his particular kind of sufferin', but it's on his face in as plain readin' as the Family Bible. He's a lonish sort of a man, save for his nephew Reuben, but he'll ha' the parish for his mourners when his time does come. The gentlest, harmlessest creetur as ever was a neighbour, is Ezra Gold."

66

and a pretence of surprise. She was not going to take everybody into her confidence. What to be sure?" said Mrs. Sennacherib, retiring from instinct. "In old days there used to be a sort of kindness between you. At least it was said so."

'It is a great pity that people cannot be taught to mind their own business," said Rachel.

"So it is, Miss Blythe-so it is," Mrs. Sennacherib assented hastily. "I hate them folks as has got nothing better to do than to talk about their neighbours. But as I was a-sayin' he's a-breakin' up fast, poor man, and that's a thing as is only too clear to a old experienced eye like mine. A beautiful sperrit the man's got, to be sure, but allays a mild and sorrowful look with him. When me and Sennacherib was first married he'd a habit of coming over here with 'Saiah Eld and Mr. Fuller for the music. It was pretty to hear 'em, for they'm all fine players, though mostly theer music was above my mark; but sometimes they'd get him to play somethin' by himself, and then 'twas sweet. But he give up playin' all of a sudden-1 could niver mek out why or wheerfor, an' I suppose it's over five-an'-twenty 'ear since he touched the fiddle."

Now Mrs. Sennacherib, though not an untruthful woman as a general thing, had an idea as to the why and wherefore of Ezra Gold's withdrawal from the amateur ranks of Heydon Hay. She took most of her ideas from her husband, though she was not accustomed to think so, and it was he who had inoculated her with this one. She laid her small trap for her old friend and schoolfellow with an admirable monchalance and indifference of aspect, and looked at Rachel with an eye from which all appearance of speculation was carefully abstracted.

"He gave up playing?" Rachel asked, with a tone of surprise.

"Yes," said Mrs. Sennacherib, with a stolid-seeming nod. "He give it up, clean. Why, now I come to think on it, I don't believe he iver touched the music- She paused in some confusion, and to cover this

feigned to consider. 'Let me see. He give up the music just about the time as you went away to Barfield."

The old maid's lips twitched, her cheeks went pale, and a look of absolute terror rose to her eyes.

"I was always under the impression that nothing could have induced him to give up his music. As I remember him he was peculiarly devoted to it."

She did her best to speak indifferently, but her voice shook in spite of her.

"He give it up just about the time as you went away," repeated Mrs. Sennacherib. "I've heard our Sennacherib and his brother 'Saiah say over and over again as since that time he niver so much as opened a piece of music."

The little old maid arose with both hands on her heart, tight-clasped there. Her eyes were wild, and she panted as if for breath. "Miss Blythe!" cried the other, alarmed by her aspect, "Rachel ! What's the matter? Why, my dear, you're ill! Α glass o' wine; me own mekin', my dear. Theer's no better elderberry i' the parish. Tek a drop, now do; it'll do you good, I'm sure."

“No, thank you," said Rachel, waving the proffered glass aside and sinking back into her chair. "It passes very soon. It is quite gone. I thank you. Pray take no notice of my ailments, Mrs. Eld, I am sorry to have discommoded you, even for moment."

a

She was her prim and mincing self again, though there was still a tremor in her voice, and the exalted look in her young eyes was more marked than common. After a little time she recovered herself completely, and Mrs. Sennacherib entertained her for an hour with mournful histories of death and burial. The good woman had a rare nose for an invalid, and a passion for nursing. Such of her old schoolfellows as had died since Rachel's departure had mostly been nursed out of life under the care of Mrs. Sennacherib, and she was intimate with the symptoms of all of them, from the earliest to the latest. There was but little need for Rachel to talk at all when once her hostess had entered upon this absorbing topic, and when the old maid arose to go she had altogether recovered from the effect of whatever emotion had assailed her.

She walked homeward so prim, so old, so withered, that ninety-nine in a hundred would. have laughed to know that she was living in the heart of a love story, and that story her But we rarely grow old enough to forget our own griefs, howsoever cold the frost of age may make us to the griefs of others.

own.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE young Sennacherib, swaggering gaily from his unnatural parent's door, was aware of something as nearly approaching a flutter

as not often disturbed the picturesque dulness of the village main street. By some unusual chance there were half a dozen people in the road, and not only did these turn to stare at him, but at least half a dozen others peered at him from behind the curtains of cottage interiors, or boldly flattened their noses against the bulbous little panes of glass in the diamonded windows.

"Theer's a look of summat stirrin' i' the place, gaffer," said Snac to one ancient of the village.

"Why, yis, Mr. Eld, theer is that sort of a air about the pläas to-day," the old fellow answered with a fine unconsciousness. "But then theer mostly is a bit of a crowd round our town pump."

The crowd about the town pump consisted of one slatternly small girl and a puppy.

"Can't a chap call on his feyther 'ithout the midland counties turnin' out to look at him?" Snac asked smilingly.

"Yis," returned the ancient, who was conveniently deaf on a sudden. "Theer's been no such fine ripenin' weather for the wheat sence I wur a lad."

Snac gave the riding-whip he carried a burlesque threatening flourish, and the old boy grinned humorously.

"Sin Joseph Beaker this mornin', Mr. Eld?" he asked.

"No," said Snac. "What about him?" "His lordship's gi'en him a set o' togs," said the old rustic, "an' he's drunker wi' the joy on 'em than iver I was with ode ale at harvest-time."

"Aha!" cried Snac scenting a jest. "Wheer is he?"

"Why, theer he is!" said the rustic, and turning, Snac beheld Joseph Beaker at that moment shambling round the corner of the graveyard wall, followed closely by the youth of the village. The Earl of Barfield had kept his promise, and had bestowed upon Joseph a laced waistcoat- -a waistcoat which had not been worn since the first decade of the century, and was old-fashioned even then. It was of a fine crimson cloth, and had a tarnished line of lace about the edge and around the flaps of the pockets. Over this glorious garment Joseph wore a sky-blue swallow-tail coat of forgotten fashion, and below it a pair of knee-breeches which, being much too long for him, were adjusted midway about his shrunken calves. A pair of hob-nailed bluchers and a battered straw hat gave a somewhat feeble finish to these magnificences. As the poor Joseph aired the splendours of his attire there was a faint and far-away