down a bat and
began oiling it. Sixteen years ago, when Husell was born, he had been
overtaken by sounds that he had never to this day forgotten; they had
clung to the nerves of his memory, and for no reward would he hear them
again. They had never been uttered since, for like most wives, his wife
was a heroine; but, used as he was to this event, the Rector had ever
since suffered from panic. It was as though Providence, storing all the
anxiety which he might have felt throughout, let him have it with a rush
at the last moment. He put the bat back into its case, corked the
oil-bottle, and again stood looking at his household gods. None came to
his aid. And his thoughts were as they had nine times been before. 'I
ought not to go out. I ought to wait for Wilson. Suppose anything were
to happen. Still, nurse is with her, and I can do nothing. Poor
Rose--poor darling! It's my duty to----What's that? I'm better out of
the way.'

Softly, without knowing that it was softly, he opened the door; softly,
without knowing it was softly, he stepped to the hat-rack and took his
black straw hat; softly, without knowing it was softly, he went out, and,
unfaltering, hurried down the drive.

Three minutes later he appeared again, approaching the house faster than
he had set forth.

He passed the hall door, ran up the stairs, and entered his wife's room.

"Rose dear, Rose, can I do anything?"

Mrs. Barter put out her hand, a gleam of malice shot into her eyes.
Through her set lips came a vague murmur, and the words:

"No, dear, nothing. Better go for your walk."

Mr. Barter pressed his lips to her quivering hand, and backed from the
room. Outside the door he struck at the air with his fist, and, running
downstairs, was once more lost to sight. Faster and faster he walked,
leaving the village behind, and among the country sights and sounds and
scents--his nerves began to recover. He was able to think again of other
things: of Cecil's school report--far from satisfactory; of old Hermon in
the village, whom he suspected of overdoing his bronchitis with an eye to
port; of the return match with Coldingham, and his belief that their
left-hand bowler only wanted "hitting"; of the new edition of hymn-books,
and the slackness of the upper village in attending church--five
households less honest and ductile than the rest, a foreign look about
them, dark people, un-English. In thinking of these things he forgot
what he want