dignity. Mrs. Brancher, a stout blonde lady,
knitting under a beech-tree, regarded the
ceremony with matronly delight.

I opened my casement, looked out, and nodded.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull
boy," shouted Mr. Brancher, his portly face
radiant with content as he dismounted his child
from his swift but inanimate steed, and tossed
him into the air.

"We are going out after dinner for an
evening's fishing," said I, "children and all.
We've got a punt moored ready under the osier
bank; will you and your wife join us, and bring
the children?"

"With the sincerest pleasure," said Mr.
Brancher.

"Half-past three is the time," I shouted
again; "it is no use fishing while the sun's
hot."

My wife and the children were delighted at
the anticipated fishing-party.

"It is so important, my dear, to have nice
neighbours," remarked Lucy, "and you're so
much away, you know, Arthur."

We had hired a second punt, and put chairs in
it for the ladies. The children we divided. Punctually
at the prescribed time, the two boats, with
their laughing crews, pushed off past the lock
at Bybridge, for the osier clump where we
were to moor.

There could not be a more agreeable man
than Mr. Brancher, we all thought. He was
so amiable, so unselfish, so chatty, so determined
to please and be pleased, so well-bred,
so anecdotic. He was evidently a travelled
man, for he spoke of Calcutta and Lima; his
acquaintances were of a high class, for he talked
of "my old college friend, Mountcashel."

He was not, thank Heaven, what is called
"a lady's man"—that detestable mixture of
obtrusive self-conceit, fribbledom, and small-talk—
but, still chivalrous in his manner, and betraying
a good heart in every action. He baited the
hooks for the ladies, told fairy stories to the
children, related feats in angling for mud-fish
in the Baboon river in South Africa. To crown
his popularity, he had brought some champagne,
and the merry pop of the silvered corks started
the swallows round the osier island.

We all enjoyed the evening; it was delightful
to see the children when a large prickly-
backed perch, his broad side striped like a
zebra, his transparent fins a golden orange,
came struggling up to the daylight. Our neighbour
was indefatigable in baiting hooks, plumbing
deeps, extracting hooks from fishes' gullets,
adjusting reels, and teaching my boys how to
strike from the elbow.

As the evening advanced, and the white moth
came on the water, Mr. Brancher grew
audacious in his triumphs. He drew out the fish
with the rapidity of a juggler, he caught perch
with the eyes of their fellow-creatures, he even
caught them with the bare hook.

As we punted home, the conversation, somehow
or other, fell on the audacious hotel robberies
that had lately taken place throughout
England, but chiefly in the midland and southern
counties—a daring series of robberies, evidently
planned and carried out by a well-organised and
dangerous gang of high-class thieves. I spoke
of the aids modern rogues derived from railways
and the telegraph.

Mr. Brancher took a very high tone on the
subject, and was vehement in his denunciation
of the rogues. He advocated the severest
punishments.

"By Jove, madam," he said, addressing my
wife as he paced up and down the punt, "I
would root out such scoundrels, at any cost.
I would transport the whole lot. I would have
photographs of the villains hung up in the
coffee-room of every hotel in England."

I suggested the difficulty of obtaining
photographs of thieves before their capture.

It was delightful to see Mr. Brancher laugh.
His fine white teeth glistened—all his face
seemed to laugh. "Ha! ha! ha!" he said,
"what a fool I am—you have me there, indeed.
Of course not. Still I do think the police
very grievously to blame, for not breaking up
such a detestable conspiracy against honesty.
You will pardon me, Mrs. Gregson, I have been
a judge in the Madras Presidency, and I am a
disciplinarian in such matters—not cruel, I trust
—but still a disciplinarian."

My wife was eloquent that night in her praises
of Mr. Brancher.

"But his servants tell our servants, dear,"
she said to me, "that he has one fault; he is too
fond of rambling; he is perpetually leaving his
wife to travel."

"On business."

"No, on pleasure; he has no business, he has
a pension. He is off again, they tell me,
tomorrow, early. I wonder, Arthur, he never
mentioned it to us."

A fortnight later, Mr. Brancher and his wife
dined with us; he was very agreeable. In the
course of the evening, the conversation fell on
the abolition of the punishment of death. The
ex-judge was strong against such abolition.

"No, ladies," he said, "I am a man of the
world, and I know that the rascals who infest
the world need to be terrified. The gibbet is a
scarecrow for them."

I differed from him, but could get no partisans;
every one, even my wife, was with the
ex-judge. "An excellent fellow," thought I to
myself, "but of too severe a cast of thought on
these matters."

The week after, I and Lucy went and dined
at Brancher's. There was to be a little dancing
in the evening. It was then, over our wine, that
I first discovered Brancher to be a brother mason.
This was an additional tie to bind together our
growing friendship. The dinner had passed
off pleasantly; everything was choice without
being vulgarly profuse; the meat was done
to a turn; the wine was excellent. There was
certainly a little too much of a tall bony gardener,
in exuberant white gloves, who cannoned
against the other servants, whispered a good