disciples in his life-time, a few young labourers and tenant farmers,
who swore tempestuously that he was not really a fool. This, he told
himself, was as much as he deserved.

Cadover was inherited by his widow. She tried to sell it; she tried to
let it; but she asked too much, and as it was neither a pretty place nor
fertile, it was left on her hands. With many a groan she settled down
to banishment. Wiltshire people, she declared, were the stupidest in
England. She told them so to their faces, which made them no brighter.
And their county was worthy of them: no distinction in it--no
style--simply land.

But her wrath passed, or remained only as a graceful fretfulness. She
made the house comfortable, and abandoned the farm to Mr. Wilbraham.
With a good deal of care she selected a small circle of acquaintances,
and had them to stop in the summer months. In the winter she would go to
town and frequent the salons of the literary. As her lameness increased
she moved about less, and at the time of her nephew's visit seldom left
the place that had been forced upon her as a home. Just now she
was busy. A prominent politician had quoted her husband. The young
generation asked, "Who is this Mr. Failing?" and the publishers wrote,
"Now is the time." She was collecting some essays and penning an
introductory memoir.

Rickie admired his aunt, but did not care for her. She reminded him too
much of his father. She had the same affliction, the same heartlessness,
the same habit of taking life with a laugh--as if life is a pill! He
also felt that she had neglected him. He would not have asked much: as
for "prospects," they never entered his head, but she was his only near
relative, and a little kindness and hospitality during the lonely years
would have made incalculable difference. Now that he was happier and
could bring her Agnes, she had asked him to stop at once. The sun as it
rose next morning spoke to him of a new life. He too had a purpose and
a value in the world at last. Leaning out of the window, he gazed at the
earth washed clean and heard through the pure air the distant noises of
the farm.

But that day nothing was to remain divine but the weather. His aunt, for
reasons of her own, decreed that he should go for a ride with the Wonham
boy. They were to look at Old Sarum, proceed thence to Salisbury, lunch
there, see the sights, call on a certain canon for tea, and return to
Cadover in the evening. The arrangement suit