d himself, 'it's a little thing to ask--one letter a
month. I never heard of such a case.' It was wonderful indeed how they
stood it! It showed how much they valued Pippin! What was the matter
with him? What was the nature of his trouble? One glimpse Scorrier had
when even Hemmings, as he phrased it, received "quite a turn." It was
during a drive back from the most outlying of the company's trial mines,
eight miles through the forest. The track led through a belt of trees
blackened by a forest fire. Pippin was driving. The secretary seated
beside him wore an expression of faint alarm, such as Pippin's driving
was warranted to evoke from almost any face. The sky had darkened
strangely, but pale streaks of light, coming from one knew not where,
filtered through the trees. No breath was stirring; the wheels and
horses' hoofs made no sound on the deep fern mould. All around, the
burnt tree-trunks, leafless and jagged, rose like withered giants, the
passages between them were black, the sky black, and black the silence.
No one spoke, and literally the only sound was Pippin's breathing. What
was it that was so terrifying? Scorrier had a feeling of entombment;
that nobody could help him; the feeling of being face to face with
Nature; a sensation as if all the comfort and security of words and rules
had dropped away from him. And-nothing happened. They reached home and
dined.

During dinner he had again that old remembrance of a little man chopping
at a castle with his sword. It came at a moment when Pippin had raised
his hand with the carving-knife grasped in it to answer some remark of
Hemmings' about the future of the company. The optimism in his uplifted
chin, the strenuous energy in his whispering voice, gave Scorrier a more
vivid glimpse of Pippin's nature than he had perhaps ever had before.
This new country, where nothing but himself could help a man--that was
the castle! No wonder Pippin was impatient of control, no wonder he was
out of hand, no wonder he was silent--chopping away at that! And suddenly
he thought: 'Yes, and all the time one knows, Nature must beat him in the
end!'

That very evening Hemmings delivered himself of his reproof. He had sat
unusually silent; Scorrier, indeed, had thought him a little drunk, so
portentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. It was hard on a
man, he said, in his position, with a Board (he spoke as of a family of
small children), to be kept so sh