been "stuck in his
skin," and probably intended to end his incarceration that very night by
getting drunk. He was, in fact, determined to drive us away, and, though
the presence of Mrs. Abel disarmed him of his worst insolence, he
managed to become sufficiently unpleasant to make us both devoutly wish
we were at the bottom of the hill. I shudder to think what would have
happened in these circumstances to Lady Lottie Passingham or to the
Literary Counterpart.

The thing, however, had cost too much trouble to be lightly abandoned,
and we did not relish the prospect of being greeted by peals of laughter
if we returned defeated to the Rectory. In desperation, therefore, Mrs.
Abel began to force the issue. "I'm told the nightingale was heard in
the Rectory grounds last night, Snarley." "Nightingales be blowed,"
replied the Subject. "I've no time to listen if there was a hundred
singin'. I've been up with these blessed ewes three nights without a
wink o' sleep, and we've lost two lambs as were got by 'Thunderbolt.'"
"Well, some time, when you are not quite so busy, I want you to hear
what a great man has written about the nightingale," said Mrs. Abel. She
spoke in a rather forced voice, which suggested the persuasive tones of
the village curate when addressing a church-full of naughty children at
the afternoon service.

"_I_ don't want to hear it," said Snarley, whose suspicions were now
raised to certitude, "and, what's more, I _won't_ hear it. What's the
good? If anybody's been talkin' about nightingales, it's sure to be
rubbish. Nightingales is things you can't talk about, but only listen
to. No, thank you, my lady. When I wants nightingales, I'll go and hear
'em. I don't want to know what nobody had said about 'em. Besides, I've
too much to think about with these 'ere ewes. There's one lyin' dead
behind them stones as I've got to bury. She died last night;" and he
began to ply us with disgusting details about the premature confinement
of a sheep.

It was all over. Mrs. Abel remounted her horse, and presently rode down
the hill. When she had gone fifty yards or so, she took a little
calf-bound volume of Keats from her pocket and held it aloft. The signal
was not difficult to read. "Yes," it said, "we _are_ a pair of precious
fools."

* * * * *

Five months elapsed, during which I neither saw nor much desired to see
Mrs. Abel. The harvest was now gathered, and the event was to be
celeb