rdinarily like me.
When we were children everybody talked of the likeness. She had a very
sad story, and now--she's dead." The speaker's voice dropped. "I've been
confused with her before--and it's a great trouble to me. The confusion
has done me harm, more than once, and I'm very sensitive about it. So, as
I said last night, I should be greatly obliged if you would not only not
spread the story, but deny it, whenever you can."

She looked at him sharply, and he coloured crimson.

"Of course," he stammered, "I should like to do anything you wish."

"I do wish it, and--" she paused a moment, as though to think--"and
Captain Ellesborough wishes it. I would not advise you, however, to say
anything at all about it to him. But if you do what we ask you, you may
be sure we shall find some way--some substantial way--of showing that we
appreciate it."

They walked on, she with her eyes on the ground as though she were
thinking out some plan for his benefit--he puzzled and speechless.

"What do you want to do, now the war's over?" she said at last, with a
smile, looking up.

"I suppose I want to settle down--somewhere--on land, if I had the
money."

"Here?--or in Canada?"

"Oh, at home."

"I thought so. Well, Mr. Dempsey, Captain Ellesborough and I shall be
quite ready to help you in any scheme you take up. You understand?"

"That's awfully kind of you--but--"

"Quite ready," she repeated. "Let me know what your plans are when you've
worked them out--and I'll see what can be done." Then she stopped. There
was a gate near into one of her own fields. Their eyes met--hers
absolutely cool and smiling--his wavering and excited.

"You understand?" she repeated.

"Oh, yes--I understand."

"And you agree?" she added, emphasizing the words.

"Oh, yes, I--I--agree."

"Well, then, that's all right--that's understood. A letter will always
find me here. And now I must get back to my work. Good-morning."

And with a nod, she slipped through the gate, and was half way across the
fallow on the other side of it before he had realized that their strange
conversation was at an end.

XII

The vicar and his sister Eleanor were sitting at breakfast in the small
Georgian house, which, as the vicarage, played a still important
part in the village of Ipscombe. The Church may be in a bad way, as her
own children declare; revolution may be in sight, as our English
Bolshevists love to believe--not too seriously; but meanwhi