d, as
though gratitude might yet get the better of him.

The Squire's irritable glance swept over the unfenced space to right and
left, and the thought flashed through his mind:

'Suppose I were to give the beggar those gates, would he--would he let
me enclose the Scotton again?'

He looked at that square, bearded man, and the infallible instinct,
christened so wickedly by Mr. Paramor, guided him.

"What's wrong with your gates, man, I should like to know?"

Peacock looked at him full this time; there was no longer any quaver in
his voice, but a sort of rough good-humour.

"Wy, the 'arf o' them's as rotten as matchwood!" he said; and he took a
breath of relief, for he knew that gratitude was dead within his soul.

"Well, I wish mine at the home farm were half as good. Come, John!" and,
touching the mare with his heel, Mr. Pendyce turned; but before he had
gone a dozen paces he was back.

"Mrs. Peacock well, I hope? Mrs. Pendyce has gone up to London."

And touching his hat, without waiting for Peacock's answer, he rode
away. He took the lane past Peacock's farm across the home paddocks,
emerging on the cricket-ground, a field of his own which he had caused
to be converted.

The return match with Coldingham was going on, and, motionless on his
horse, the Squire stopped to watch. A tall figure in the "long field"
came leisurely towards him. It was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow. Mr. Pendyce
subdued an impulse to turn the mare and ride away.

"We're going to give you a licking, Squire! How's Mrs. Pendyce? My wife
sent her love."

On the Squire's face in the full sun was more than the sun's flush.

"Thanks," he said, "she's very well. She's gone up to London."

"And aren't you going up yourself this season?"

The Squire crossed those leisurely eyes with his own.

"I don't think so," he said slowly.

The Hon. Geoffrey returned to his duties.

"We got poor old Barter for a 'blob'!" he said over his shoulder.

The Squire became aware that Mr. Barter was approaching from behind.

"You see that left-hand fellow?" he said, pouting. "Just watch his foot.
D'you mean to say that wasn't a no-ball? He bowled me with a no-ball.
He's a rank no-batter. That fellow Locke's no more an umpire than----"

He stopped and looked earnestly at the bowler.

The Squire 'did not answer, sitting on his mare as though carved in
stone. Suddenly his throat clicked.

"How's your wife?" he said. "Margery would have come to see her,
b