eyes, put it in his waistcoat pocket, and
walked round lazily to the kitchen entrance
of the cottage.

In the apartment which would probably
have been called the pantry, if the house had
belonged to civilised tenants, a hand-mill
had been set up; and, at the moment when
Shrowl made his way to this room, Mr.
Treverton was engaged in asserting his
independence of all the millers in England, by
grinding his own corn. He paused irritably
in turning the handle of the mill, when his
servant appeared at the door.

"What do you come here for?" he asked.
"When the flour's ready, I'll call for you.
Don't let's look at each other oftener than
we can help! I never set eyes on you,
Shrowl, but I ask myself whether, in the
whole range of creation, there is any animal
as ugly as man? I saw a cat, this morning,
on the garden wall, and there wasn't a single
point in which you would bear comparison
with him. The cat's eyes were clear—yours are
muddy. The cat's nose was straight—yours is
crooked. The cat's whiskers were clean—
yours are dirty, The cat's coat fitted him—
yours hangs about you like a sack. I tell you
again, Shrowl, the species to which you (and
I) belong, is the ugliest on the whole face of
creation. Don't let us revolt each other by
keeping in company any longer. Go away,
you last, worst, infirmest freak of Nature—
go away!"

Shrowl listened to this complimentary
address with an aspect of surly serenity.
When it had come to an end, he took the
letter from his waistcoat pocket, without
condescending to make any reply. He was, by
this time, too thoroughly conscious of his own
power over his master to attach the smallest
importance to anything that Mr. Treverton
might say to him.

"Now you've done your talking, suppose
you take a look at that," said Shrowl, dropping
the letter carelessly on a deal-table by
his master's side. "It isn't often that people
trouble themselves to send letters to you—is
it?  Who do you think it comes from? I
wonder whether your niece has took a fancy
to write to you? It was put in the papers,
the other day, that she'd got a son and heir.
Open the letter, and see if it's an invitation
to the christening. The thing wouldn't be
complete without you; the company would
be sure to want your smiling face at the
table to make 'em jolly. Just let me take a
grind at the mill, while you go out and get
a silver mug. The son and heir expects a
mug, you know, and his nurse expects half-
a-guinea, and his mamma expects all your
fortune. What a pleasure to make the three
innocent creatures happy! It's shocking to
see you pulling wry faces, like that, over the
letter. Lord! lord! where can all your natural
affection have gone to?——"

"If I only knew where to lay my hand
on a gag, I'd cram it into your infernal
mouth!" cried Mr. Treverton. "How dare
you talk to me about my niece? You
wretch ! you know I hate her for her
mother's sake. What do you mean by harping
perpetually on my fortune? Sooner than
leave it to the play-actress's child, I'd even
leave it to you; and sooner than leave
it to you, I would take every farthing of it
out in a boat, and bury it for ever at the
bottom of the sea!" Venting his dissatisfaction
in these strong terms, Mr. Treverton
snatched up Dr. Chennery's letter, and tore
it open in a humour which by no means
promised favourably for the success of the vicar's
application.

He read the letter with an ominous scowl
on his face, which grew darker and darker as
he got nearer and nearer to the end. When
he came to the signature his humour changed,
and he laughed sardonically. "Faithfully
yours, Robert Chennery," he repeated to
himself. "Yes! Faithfully mine, if I humour
your whim. And what if I don't, Parson?"
He paused, and looked at the letter again,
the scowl reappearing on his face as he did
so. "There's a lie of some kind lurking about
under these lines of fair writing," he
muttered suspiciously. "I am not one of his
congregation: the law gives him no privilege
of imposing on me. What does he mean by
making the attempt?" He stopped again,
reflected a little, looked up suddenly at
Shrowl, and said to him:—

"Have you lit the oven fire yet?"

"No, I hav'n't," answered Shrowl.

Mr. Treverton examined the letter for the
third time—hesitated—then slowly tore it in
half, and tossed the two pieces over
contemptuously to his servant.

"Light the fire at once," he said. "And, if
you want paper, there it is for you. Stop!"
he added, after Shrowl had picked up the
torn letter. "If anybody comes here
tomorrow morning to ask for an answer, tell
them I gave you the letter to light the fire
with, and say that's the answer." With those
words Mr. Treverton returned to the mill,
and began to grind at it again, with a
grin of malicious satisfaction on his haggard
face.

Shrowl withdrew into the kitchen, closed
the door, and, placing the torn pieces of the
letter together on the dresser, applied himself,
with the coolest deliberation, to the business
of reading it. When he had gone slowly and
carefully through it, from the address at the
beginning to the name at the end, he scratched
reflectively for a little while at his ragged
neglected beard, then folded the letter up
carefully and put it in his pocket,

"I'll have another look at it, later in the
day," he thought to himself, tearing off a
piece of an old newspaper to light the fire
with. "It strikes me, just at present, that
there may be better things done with this
letter than burning it."

Resolutely abstaining from taking the letter