er this morning and she asked me to stay."

"You've stayed long enough--your saintly brother's had to do the
milking."

"Where's Dennett?"

"Gone to the carols with the rest. Confounded nuisance, these primitive
religious impulses of an elemental people--always seem to require an
outlet at an hour when other people want their meals."

"They'll be back in time for dinner."

"I doubt it, and cook's gone too--and Tom Saville's coming, you know."

"Well, I'd better go and see after the milking."

"Don't worry. I've finished," and a dark round head came round the door,
followed by a hunched figure in a cloak, from the folds of which it
deprecatingly held out a pint jug.

"What's that?"

"The results of half an hour's milking. I know I should have got more,
but I think the cows found me unsympathetic."

Martin burst out laughing. Ordinarily he would have felt annoyed at the
prospect of having to go milking at this hour, but to-night he was
expansive and good-humoured towards all beasts and men.

He laughed again--

"I don't know that the cows have any particular fancy for me, but I'll
go and see what I can do."

"I'm sorry not to have succeeded better," said his brother.

The elder Trevor was only two years older than Martin, but his looks
gave him more. His features were blunter, more humorous, and his face
was already lined, while his hands looked work-worn. He wore a rough
grey cassock buttoned up to his chin.

"You should have preached to them," said Sir Harry, "like St. Francis of
something or other. You should have called them your sisters and they'd
have showered down their milk in gallons. What's the good of being a
monk if you can't work miracles?"

"I leave that to St. Francis Dennett--I'm quite convinced that cows are
milked only supernaturally, and I find it very difficult even to be
natural with them. Perhaps Martin will take me in hand and show me that
much."

"I don't think I need. I hear the servants coming in."

"Thank God," exclaimed Sir Harry, "now perhaps we shall get our food
cooked. Martin's already had dinner, Lawrence--he had it with Joanna
Godden. Martin, I don't know that I like your having dinner with Joanna
Godden. It marks you--they'll talk about it at the Woolpack for weeks,
and it'll probably end in your having to marry her to make her an honest
woman."

"That's what I mean to do--to marry her."

The words broke out of him. He had certainly not meant to tell his
father