heart.

"'They say,' said I, 'it's lucky when a hare pops out in your
path. What do you think?'

"'Worth carrying home?' said Farrell. 'I'm partial to hare.
But he's a bit undersized for Leadenhall Market'--and the fool
laughed.

"'We'll let him go,' said I.

"'I guess he's too far scared to crawl,' he suggested doubtfully.

"'Turn about and watch,' said I. 'It may have escaped your
memory that you once accused me of being cruel to animals.
Turn about, and watch. Don't move.'

"I undid the three upper buttons of my waistcoat, stowed the
little fellow down inside, against my shirt, leaving his head
free, so that I could stroke his ears and brainpan. I let
Farrell see this, stepped past him, and walked slowly back down
the path. At the end of twenty paces I lifted the little beast
out, set him on the ground, and walked on. He shook his ears
twice, then lopped after me like a dog, at a slow canter.
At the point where he had tumbled I collected him again by the
ears, lifted him, climbed the bank and restored him to his
thicket, into which he vanished with a flick of his white scut.

"Then I went back very slowly to Farrell. 'Curious things,
animals,' said I. 'If you don't mind, we won't talk any more
golf to-day.'"

NIGHT THE TENTH.

PILGRIMAGE OF HATE.

"A map scored with the zigzags of our route would suggest the
wanderings of a couple of lunatics. But that was the way of it.
I would turn up at breakfast any morning and propound some plan
for a new divagation. Farrell never failed to fall in with it.
For a time, of course, I had him in places whence, with his
ignorance of France, he might have found it hard to escape back
to his own form of civilisation. But even when he had picked up
enough of the language to ask for a railway ticket and something
to eat, his reliance on me continued to be pathetic, dog-like.

"I know something of dogs. I have no experience of marriage.
But from time to time I put this question to myself: 'Here is a
widower--free, as he tells me, after twenty-seven years of
married life almost entirely spent at Wimbledon. It is
inconceivable that he did not, during that considerable period,
look at least once or twice across the table at the late Mrs.
Farrell and ask himself if the busine