t, instinctively she knew how
things came to be as they were,--and, because of this knowledge, her
cheeks flamed with a swift, burning colour, and with a soft cry, she hid
her face in Miss Priscilla's gentle bosom. Then, while her face was yet
hidden there, she whispered:

"Tell me--tell me--all about it."

But, meanwhile, Bellew, striding far away across the meadows, seeming to
watch the glory of the sun-set, and to hearken to a blackbird piping
from the dim seclusion of the copse a melodious "Good-bye" to the dying
day, yet saw, and heard it not at all, for his mind was still occupied
with Adam's question:--

"What would Miss Anthea say?"

CHAPTER XIV

_Which, among, other things, has to do with shrimps, muffins, and tin
whistles_

A typical Kentish Village is Dapplemere with its rows of scattered
cottages bowered in roses and honeysuckle,--white walled cottages with
steep-pitched roofs, and small latticed windows that seem to stare at
all and sundry like so many winking eyes.

There is an air redolent of ripening fruit, and hops, for Dapplemere is
a place of orchards, and hop-gardens, and rick-yards, while, here and
there, the sharp-pointed, red-tiled roof of some oast-house pierces
the green.

Though Dapplemere village is but a very small place indeed,
now-a-days,--yet it possesses a church, grey and ancient, whose massive
Norman tower looks down upon gable and chimney, upon roof of thatch and
roof of tile, like some benignant giant keeping watch above them all.
Near-by, of course, is the inn, a great, rambling, comfortable place,
with time-worn settles beside the door, and with a mighty sign
a-swinging before it, upon which, plainly to be seen (when the sun
catches it fairly) is that which purports to be a likeness of His
Majesty King William the Fourth, of glorious memory. But alas! the
colours have long since faded, so that now, (upon a dull day), it is a
moot question whether His Majesty's nose was of the Greek, or Roman
order, or, indeed, whether he was blessed with any nose at all. Thus,
Time and Circumstances have united to make a ghost of the likeness (as
they have done of the original, long since) which, fading yet more, and
more, will doubtless eventually vanish altogether,--like King William
himself, and leave but a vague memory behind.

Now, before the inn was a small crowd gathered about a trap in which sat
two men, one of whom Bellew recognised as the rednecked Corn-chandler
Grimes, an