s face to the Downs.

It was a lovely evening. Half the sky was clear and blue, and the other
half full of silky gold clouds--they wanted to be heavy and wet, but
the sun was having such fun on the edge of the Downs, somewhere about
Duncton, that they had to be gold in spite of themselves.

CONCLUSION

One evening at the end of the first week in September, Martin Pippin
walked along the Roman Road to Adversane. And as he approached he said
to himself, "There are many sweet corners in Sussex, but few sweeter
than this, and I thank my stars that I have been led to see it once in
my life."

While he was thanking his stars, which were already in the sky waiting
for the light to go out and give them a chance, he heard the sound of
weeping. It came from the malthouse, which is the most beautiful
building in Sussex. So persistent was it that after he had listened to
it for six minutes it seemed to Martin that he had been listening to it
for six months, and for one moment he believed himself to be sitting in
an orchard with his eyes shut, and warm tears from heaven falling on
his face. But knowing himself to be too much given to fancies he
decided to lay those ghosts by investigation, and he went up to the
malthouse and looked inside.

There he found a young man flooring the barley. As he turned and
re-turned it with his spade he wept so copiously above it that he was
frequently obliged to pause and wipe away his tears with his arm, for
he could no longer see the barley he was spreading. When the maltster
had interrupted himself thus for the third occasion, Martin Pippin
concluded that it was time to address him.

"Young master," said Martin, "the bitters that are brewed from your
barley will need no adulterating behind the bar, and that's flat."

The maltster leaned on his spade to reply.

"There are no waters in all the world," said he, "plentiful enough to
adulterate the bitterness of my despair."

"Then I would preserve these rivers for better sport," said Martin.
"And if memory plays me no tricks, your name was once Robin Rue."

"And Rue it will be to my last hour," said Robin, "for a man can no
more escape from his name than from his nature."

"Men," observed Martin, "have been in this respect worse served than
women. And when will Gillian Gillman change her name?"

"No sooner than I," sighed Robin Rue; "a maid she must die, as I a
bachelor. And if she do not outlive me, we shall both be buried before
C