standing what I had
done, and even now I do not pretend to understand it wholly. But this is
what happened. Standing over me with fierce gesticulations, Mr. Perryman
poured out a fury of words, only fragments of which I can now recall.

"Perfect saint!" he shouted. "Do you know who it is you're talking
about? No, you don't, or you'd never have said such a word! Look here,
mister, let me tell yer this: you're on the wrong side of your 'osses
this time! She's no more a saint than _I_ am; if she had been, do you
think she could ha' done the best thing she ever did?"

"Great heavens!" I thought, "what can he mean?--I'm sorry you're hurt,"
I said aloud. "I meant no offence. Only you said just now she was as
good as twenty thousand----"

"_Actresses_," broke in the farmer. "I said twenty thousand
actresses--not twenty thousand _lambs_."

"Oh, well," I replied, "of course, there's a great difference between
the two things, and I was stupid not to think of it before. Whatever she
may be, it's plain you admire her, and that's enough." I was anxious to
break the current of Mr. Perryman's thoughts, and recover the history of
the Tall Hat, the thread of which had been so unexpectedly snapped.

"Admire her!" cried the old man, who was evidently not to be put off.
"And why shouldn't I? Who was it that dug Sam Perryman out of the mud
when he was buried in it up to his neck--yes, and got half smothered
with mud herself in doing it? But do you think she _cared_? Not she!
Snapped her fingers in the face of half the county, that she did, and
what's more she gave some of 'em a taste of the whip as they won't
forget! Now listen, and I'll tell you something that'll make your hair
curl."

I swiftly resolved not to listen, for the farmer was beside himself with
excitement and not responsible for what he was doing. I saw that I was
about to discover what I was never intended to know. Dim recollections
came to my mind of a grotesque but terrible story, known to not more
than four living souls, the names and personalities in which had for
good reasons been carefully concealed from me and from others. That
Farmer Perryman was one actor in that tragedy, and that Mrs. Abel was
another, had been already revealed past recalling. More than this it was
unseemly that I should hear.

The figure of the old man, as he stood before me then, is one of those
images that cannot be effaced. His voice was broken, his lips were
parted and quivering, his fo