ood staring
at those rounded upstanding letters, not trusting myself to speak
or move. At last I stole a glance at Stuart.

He held the envelope in his hand, and stared down at the postmark
between his horny thumbnails.

"You can't even tell where she is," he said, turning the thing
round in a hopeless manner, and then desisting. "It's hard on us,
Willie. Here she is; she hadn't anything to complain of; a sort of
pet for all of us. Not even made to do her share of the 'ousework.
And she goes off and leaves us like a bird that's learnt to fly.
Can't TRUST us, that's what takes me. Puts 'erself-- But there!
What's to happen to her?"

"What's to happen to him?"

He shook his head to show that problem was beyond him.

"You'll go after her," I said in an even voice; "you'll make him
marry her?"

"Where am I to go?" he asked helplessly, and held out the envelope
with a gesture; "and what could I do? Even if I knew-- How could
I leave the gardens?"

"Great God!" I cried, "not leave these gardens! It's your Honor,
man! If she was my daughter--if she was my daughter--I'd tear the
world to pieces!" . . I choked. "You mean to stand it?"

"What can I do?"

"Make him marry her! Horsewhip him! Horsewhip him, I say!--I'd
strangle him!"

He scratched slowly at his hairy cheek, opened his mouth, and
shook his head. Then, with an intolerable note of sluggish gentle
wisdom, he said, "People of our sort, Willie, can't do things like
that."

I came near to raving. I had a wild impulse to strike him in the
face. Once in my boyhood I happened upon a bird terribly mangled
by some cat, and killed it in a frenzy of horror and pity. I had
a gust of that same emotion now, as this shameful mutilated soul
fluttered in the dust, before me. Then, you know, I dismissed him
from the case.

"May I look?" I asked.

He held out the envelope reluctantly.

"There it is," he said, and pointing with his garden-rough forefinger.
"I.A.P.A.M.P. What can you make of that?"

I took the thing in my hands. The adhesive stamp customary in those
days was defaced by a circular postmark, which bore the name of
the office of departure and the date. The impact in this particular
case had been light or made without sufficient ink, and half the
letters of the name had left no impression. I could distinguish--

I A P A M P

and very faintly below D.S.O.

I guessed the name in an instant flash of intuition. It was
Shaphambury. The very gaps shape