he
sort of Englishman that crosses the world in order to find vent for his
taciturn energy on virgin soils. From the whole village he commanded and
received respect. He was known for a scholar, and it was his scholarship
which had obtained for him the proud position of secretary to the
provident society styled the Queen's Arms Slate Club. His respectability
and his learning combined had enabled him to win with dignity the hand
of Susie Trimmer, the grocer's daughter, to whom he had been engaged
about a year. The village could not make up its mind concerning that
match; without doubt it was a social victory for Froyle, but everyone
wondered that so sedate and sagacious a man should have seen in Susie a
suitable mate.

He tore open the envelope with his huge forefinger, and, bending down
towards the lantern, began to read the letter. It ran:

'OLDCASTLE STREET,

'BURSLEY.

'DEAR WILL,

'I asked father to tell you, but he would not. He said I must
write. Dear Will, I hope you will never see me again. As you will
see by the above address, I am now at Aunt Penrose's at Bursley.
She is awful angry, but I was obliged to leave the village because
of my shame. I have been a wicked girl. It was in July. You know
the man, because you asked me about him one Sunday night. He is no
good. He is a villain. Please forget all about me. I want to go to
London. So many people know me here, and what with people coming
in from the village, too. Please forgive me.

'S. TRIMMER.'

After reading the letter a second time, Froyle folded it up and put it
in his pocket. Beyond a slight unaccustomed pallor of the red cheeks, he
showed no sign of emotion. Before the arrival of the postman he had been
cleaning his master's bicycle, which stood against the table. To this he
returned. Kneeling down in some fresh straw, he used his dusters slowly
and patiently--rubbing, then stopping to examine the result, and then
rubbing again. When the machine was polished to his satisfaction, he
wheeled it carefully into the stable, where it occupied a stall next to
that of the cob. As he passed back again, the animal leisurely turned
its head and gazed at Froyle with its large liquid eyes. He slapped the
immense flank. Content, the animal returned to its feed, and the
weighted chain ran down with a rattle.

The fortnightly meeting of the Slate Club was to take place at eight
o'clock that evening. Froyle