e friend, "it is a different thrush."

"We have suspected that," said J. P. Huddle, "and I think it gives us
even more cause for annoyance. We don't feel that we want a change of
thrush at our time of life; and yet, as I have said, we have scarcely
reached an age when these things should make themselves seriously felt."

"What you want," said the friend, "is an Unrest-cure."

"An Unrest-cure? I've never heard of such a thing."

"You've heard of Rest-cures for people who've broken down under stress
of too much worry and strenuous living; well, you're suffering from
overmuch repose and placidity, and you need the opposite kind of
treatment."

"But where would one go for such a thing?"

"Well, you might stand as an Orange candidate for Kilkenny, or do a
course of district visiting in one of the Apache quarters of Paris, or
give lectures in Berlin to prove that most of Wagner's music was
written by Gambetta; and there's always the interior of Morocco to
travel in. But, to be really effective, the Unrest-cure ought to be
tried in the home. How you would do it I haven't the faintest idea."

It was at this point in the conversation that Clovis became galvanized
into alert attention. After all, his two days' visit to an elderly
relative at Slowborough did not promise much excitement. Before the
train had stopped he had decorated his sinister shirt-cuff with the
inscription, "J. P. Huddle, The Warren, Tilfield, near Slowborough."

* * * * *

Two mornings later Mr. Huddle broke in on his sister's privacy as she
sat reading Country Life in the morning room. It was her day and hour
and place for reading Country Life, and the intrusion was absolutely
irregular; but he bore in his hand a telegram, and in that household
telegrams were recognized as happening by the hand of God. This
particular telegram partook of the nature of a thunderbolt. "Bishop
examining confirmation class in neighbourhood unable stay rectory on
account measles invokes your hospitality sending secretary arrange."

"I scarcely know the Bishop; I've only spoken to him once," exclaimed
J. P. Huddle, with the exculpating air of one who realizes too late the
indiscretion of speaking to strange Bishops. Miss Huddle was the first
to rally; she disliked thunderbolts as fervently as her brother did,
but the womanly instinct in her told her that thunderbolts must be fed.

"We can curry the cold duck," she said. It was not the