east two-and-thirty. Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year
before anything save brief civilities passed between them. In the second
twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging
reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of
the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the
fashion of bicycling. In the third year they were quite intimate; so
intimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke
of his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a
history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the
landlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the
subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far
from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by
taking the same view of the matter.

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the
under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of
refreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the ivied
porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar
sewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress
from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and
coolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no
disagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her
habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the
discreetest of modest welcomes.

'Good day, Miss Fouracres,' said the under-master, after his usual little
cough.

'Good day, sir,' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar
note of honesty. Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance's
name.

'Splendid weather for the crops. I'll take a ginger-beer, if you please.'

'Indeed, that it is, sir. Ginger-beer; yes, sir.'

Then followed two or three minutes of silence. Miss Fouracres had resumed
her sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more
gravely than usual.

'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length.

'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking about
the Prince.'

'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had
distressing significance. 'That's a great pity.'

'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say,' went on Miss Fouracres, in the same
confidential tone, 'that the Princ