lad's
shoulder as he told how the two were found

"So looped and tangled together
That their fate was involved in a dark mystery
As to which was the catcher and which the catchee . . .
And the fishermen thought it could never be known
After all their thinking and figuring,
Whether the nigger a-fishing had gone,
Or the fish had gone out a-niggering."

There were defects in meter and rhythm, but Brinsley's sprightly delivery
made these of minor importance, and the company had no criticism.
Francois, shivering a little, admitted that he wanted to hear it again,
and climbed to Brinsley's knee. The old man with his arm about him
decided that to say it over would be to spoil the charm, and that anyhow
the time had come to pop the corn.

To Francois this was a new art, but when he had followed the fascinating
process through all its stages until the white grains boiled up in the
popper and threatened to burst the cover, his rapture knew no bounds.

"Could I do it myself, Miss Anne?" he asked, and she let him empty the
snowy kernels into a big bowl, and fill the popper for a second supply.

She bent above him, showing him how to shake it steadily.

Geoffrey Fox coming in smiled at the scene. How far away it seemed from
anything modern--this wide hearth-stone with the dog and the pussy
cat--and the little children, the lovely girl and the old man--the wind
blowing outside--the corn popping away like little pistols.

"May I have some?" he asked, and Anne smiled up at him, while Peggy
brought little plates and set the big bowl on a stool within reach of
them all.

"What brings you up, sir?" Geoffrey asked Brinsley.

"The drag-hunt and breakfast at the club. I am too stiff to follow, but
David and I like to meet old friends--you see I was born in this
country."

That was the beginning of a string of reminiscences to which they all
listened breathlessly. The fox hunting instinct was an inheritance in
this part of the country. It had its traditions and legends and Brinsley
knew them all.

If any one had told Geoffrey Fox a few weeks before that he would be
content to spend his time as he was spending it now, writing all day and
reading the chapters at night to a serious-eyed little school-teacher
who scolded him and encouraged him by turns, he would have scoffed at
such an impossible prospect. Yet he was not only doing it, but was glad
to be swept away from the atmosphere of somewhat