hile she took a few from the basket and arranged them in the big
silver bowl she continued pleasantly--

"I always wish I were a girl again when I pick roses. There's a
sentiment about them--and perhaps a danger--a nice sort of danger. You
know, it's very sad to reach an age at which danger no longer exists.
By the way, a very singular thing happened to me on my way to the
village. I was followed, Flora!"

"Followed! But who'd dare?" said Jane.

Mrs. Barraclough pouted pathetically.

"Please don't say that," she begged. "It makes one feel so old. After
all, there is no law to prevent one being followed unless it is the law
of selection."

"Who followed you?" asked Flora.

"A man," replied Mrs. Barraclough with ceremony. "A very respectable
man. He revived a sense of youth in me by wearing elastic sided boots."

"What was his face like?"

"In the circumstances, Jane, I kept my eyes discreetly downcast, but I
had a fleeting impression of clerical broadcloth."

"That man!" exclaimed Flora with sudden emphasis.

"My dear, it is most unbecoming to speak disparagingly of a member of
the clergy. As a girl the word curate inspired in me feelings of
respect and sentiment."

"There's not much to get sentimental over in that old beast," said
Jane. "He's been hanging around since yesterday evening and what's
more, I'll bet he's up to no good."

Mrs. Barraclough had her own opinion of the mysterious parson who had
addressed her in the lane but she preferred to arrive at the opinions
of others by her own method.

"I am sure it is very wrong to bet on clergymen as though they were
race horses," she replied.

"But honestly," said Flora, "I believe he is a bad hat."

"Well, well, well," Mrs. Barraclough acceded, "if he isn't he certainly
wore one--a black and white straw of a shape and pattern which I
believe you moderns call 'boaters.' There, the kettle is boiling. Run
along and leave me to myself."

After the two girls had departed Mrs. Barraclough stroked the end of
her chin with a sensitive forefinger and murmured:

"I wonder what that man is here for? It's queer--I wish I didn't
think--Oh, well!"

She leaned forward and poured herself out a cup of tea. A discreet
cough caused her to start and rise quickly.

In the centre of the room stood Mr. Alfred Bolt, looking for all the
world like the comic paper idea of a parson. A huge, black frock coat
hung in festoons over his globular form, his scar