em back, Mr.
Savery,' he mumbled, too much ashamed even to explain what he meant by
'them.' But William Savery needed no explanation. Ever since the hides
had mysteriously disappeared from his tanyard a few days before, he
had felt sure that this quarrelsome neighbour of his must have taken
them.

What was that neighbour's real name? That, nobody knows, or ever will
know now. We only know that whatever it may have been it certainly was
not John Smith, because when, in after years, Tanner Savery
occasionally told this story he always called the stealer of his hides
'John Smith' in order to disguise his identity; so we will speak of
John Smith too. 'A ne'er-do-well' was the character people gave him.
They spoke of him as a man who was his own worst enemy, sadly too fond
of his glass, and always quarrelling with his neighbours. Only William
Savery refused to believe that any man could be altogether evil, and
he kept a ray of hope in his heart for John Smith, even when his
valuable bundle of hides mysteriously disappeared. It was that ray of
hope that had made him put the advertisement in the paper, though he
knew it would set the town laughing over 'those Quakers and their
queer soft ways.' This evening the ray of hope was shining more
brightly than ever. More brightly even than the candlelight shone in
the darkness of the night, the hope in his heart shone through the
brightness of the Tanner's eyes and smile. Yet he only answered
cheerily, 'All right, friend, wait till I can light a lantern and go
to the barn to take them back with thee.'

There was no trace of surprise in his voice. Those matter-of-fact
tones sounded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to go
out to the tanyard at 10 o'clock at night instead of going upstairs to
bed.

'After we have done that,' he continued, 'perhaps thou wilt come in
and tell me how this happened; we will see what can be done for thee.'

A lantern, hanging on its hook in the hall, was soon lighted. The two
men picked their way down the sanded steps again, then passing under a
high creeper-covered gateway they followed a narrow, flagged path to
the tanyard.

All this time William Savery had not said one word to his wife--but
the ring of happiness in his voice had made her happy too, and had
told her what he would like her to do during his absence from the
house. Lifting up the bedroom candlestick from the oak chest on which
her husband had set it down, she hastened t