ke, which to an American means work, was only just beginning.

"If it's took in a proper spirit"--Mrs. Cloke's eye turned toward her
oven.

"Send and have that mended to-morrow," Sophie whispered.

"We couldn't 'elp noticing," said Cloke slowly, "from the times you
walked there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it, but--but I don't
know as we ever precisely thought--" His wife's glance checked him.

"That we were that sort of people," said George. "We aren't sure of it
ourselves yet."

"Perhaps," said Cloke, rubbing his knees, "just for the sake of saying
something, perhaps you'll park it?"

"What's that?" said George.

"Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill"--he jerked a thumb to
westward--"that Mr. Sangres bought. It was four farms, and Mr. Sangres
made a fine park of them, with a herd of faller deer."

"Then it wouldn't be Friars Pardon," said Sophie. "Would it?"

"I don't know as I've ever heard Pardons was ever anything but wheat an'
wool. Only some gentlemen say that parks are less trouble than tenants."
He laughed nervously. "But the gentry, o' course, they keep on pretty
much as they was used to."

"I see," said Sophie. "How did Mr. Sangres make his money?"

"I never rightly heard. It was pepper an' spices, or it may ha' been
gloves. No. Gloves was Sir Reginald Liss at Marley End. Spices was Mr.
Sangres. He's a Brazilian gentleman--very sunburnt like."

"Be sure o' one thing. You won't 'ave any trouble," said Mrs. Cloke,
just before they went to bed.

Now the news of the purchase was told to Mr. and Mrs. Cloke alone at 8
P.M. of a Saturday. None left the farm till they set out for church next
morning. Yet when they reached the church and were about to slip aside
into their usual seats, a little beyond the font, where they could see
the red-furred tails of the bellropes waggle and twist at ringing time,
they were swept forward irresistibly, a Cloke on either flank (and yet
they had not walked with the Clokes), upon the ever-retiring bosom of a
black-gowned verger, who ushered them into a room of a pew at the head
of the left aisle, under the pulpit.

"This," he sighed reproachfully, "is the Pardons' Pew," and shut them
in.

They could see little more than the choir boys in the chancel, but to
the roots of the hair of their necks they felt the congregation behind
mercilessly devouring them by look.

"When the wicked man turneth away." The strong, alien voice of the
priest vibrated un