, to feed the sacred fire itself. And if at the time he paid
the penalty exacted by the sordid unimaginative ones who temporarily
rule the roast, he must ever after, one feels sure, have carried inside
him some of the white gladness of the acolyte who, greatly privileged,
has been permitted to swing a censer at the sacring of the very Mass.

October was mellowing fast, and with it the year itself; full of tender
hints, in woodland and hedgerow, of a course well-nigh completed. From
all sides that still afternoon you caught the quick breathing and sob
of the runner nearing the goal. Preoccupied and possessed, Selina had
strayed down the garden and out into the pasture beyond, where, on a
bit of rising ground that dominated the garden on one side and the downs
with the old coach-road on the other, she had cast herself down to chew
the cud of fancy. There she was presently joined by Harold, breathless
and very full of his latest grievance.

"I asked him not to," he burst out. "I said if he'd only please wait a
bit and Edward would be back soon, and it couldn't matter to him, and
the pig wouldn't mind, and Edward'd be pleased and everybody'd be happy.
But he just said he was very sorry, but bacon didn't wait for nobody.
So I told him he was a regular beast, and then I came away. And--and I
b'lieve they're doing it now!"

"Yes, he's a beast," agreed Selina, absently. She had forgotten all
about the pig-killing. Harold kicked away a freshly thrown-up mole-hill,
and prodded down the hole with a stick. From the direction of Farmer
Larkin's demesne came a long-drawn note of sorrow, a thin cry and
appeals telling that the stout soul of a black Berkshire pig was already
faring down the stony track to Hades.

"D' you know what day it is?" said Selina presently, in a low voice,
looking far away before her.

Harold did not appear to know, nor yet to care. He had laid open his
mole-run for a yard or so, and was still grubbing at it absorbedly.

"It's Trafalgar Day," went on Selina, trancedly; "Trafalgar Day--and
nobody cares!"

Something in her tone told Harold that he was not behaving quite
becomingly. He didn't exactly know in what manner; still, he abandoned
his mole-hunt for a more courteous attitude of attention.

"Over there," resumed Selina--she was gazing out in the direction of the
old highroad--"over there the coaches used to go by. Uncle Thomas was
telling me about it the other day. And the people used to watch for