ater. Can't you reason with
him--make him see how wrong all this behaviour is, and convince him that
he has only one sensible thing to do, namely, go and ask pardon of Mr
Willows?"

"Oh, I do wish I could, sir; but Jem won't listen to me. He might
listen to you, sir."

"Ah, but you see this is not my business, Mrs Drinkwater."

"No, sir, but he respects you, and he might perhaps pay attention to
what you said."

"Maybe," said the artist, thoughtfully. "Well, I will see what I can
do."

"Thank you, sir--thank you!"

"When did you see him last?"

"It's two days ago now, sir."

"Well, Mrs Drinkwater, we must hope for the best. I have always found
your husband willing and obliging up to quite recently. It seems to me
that if matters are put to him in a quiet common-sense way he will
listen. Hang it all, he will have to listen! We can't have you crying
your eyes out because he chooses to behave like a brute to you."

"Oh, my Jem really means well, sir," said the woman; "I know he does.
He has always been a good husband to me."

Late that evening the artist thought over affairs. It was a pleasant
soft summer night, and when he was alone he quietly opened the cottage
door, and lighting his pipe, sat down on the little rustic seat which
was just outside. There was hardly a sound--nothing but the night wind
sweeping through the valley, the far-off plash of water, the purring
noise of a big moth as it flew past and then hovered a second, attracted
by the gleam of the artist's pipe.

There was a step, loud and heavy, and Manners started to his feet as a
burly figure suddenly appeared just in front of him.

"Hallo, Drinkwater!" he cried. "You, my man?"

"Me it is, Mr Manners."

"Oh, that's all right. I was wanting to see you."

"Wanting to see me? What for?" said the man, gruffly.

"Oh, for several reasons. I don't like my landlord to go off for days
together, nobody knows where."

"Not wanted now," said the man, sourly--"Nobody wants me now."

"That's not a fact, Drinkwater," said the artist, firmly. "Not a bit
true. To begin with, I want you."

"Pictures to see too?"

"No, not pictures. I just want to talk to you; that's all. Have you
got your pipe? Oh, I see you have. Here's my pouch. Come, fill and
light up, and sit down here. It's a lovely night, isn't it?"

"Humph!" grunted the man, as he obeyed and began to smoke.

"Now," said the artist, cheerily, after a few minutes' silenc