d a certain careless amiability.

'You needn't go to the works any more to-day,' he said to Ethel.

To celebrate this unexpected half-holiday, Ethel and Millicent decided
that they would try to collect a scratch team for some hockey practice
in the meadow.

'And, mother, you must come,' said Millicent. 'You'll make one more
anyway.'

'Yes,' John agreed, 'it will do your mother good.'

'He will never know, and never guess, and never care, what I have been
through!' she thought.

Before leaving for the works John helped the girls to choose some
sticks.

When he reached his office, the first thing he did was to build up a
good fire. Next he looked into the safe. Then he rang the bell, and
Fred Ryley responded to the summons.

This family connection, whom he both hated and trusted, was a rather
thickset, very neatly dressed man of twenty-three, who had been mature,
serious, and responsible for eight years. His fair, grave face, with its
short thin beard, showed plainly his leading qualities of industry,
order, conscientiousness, and doggedness. It showed, too, his mild
benevolence. Ryley was never late, never neglectful, never wrong; he
never wasted an hour either of his own or his employer's time. And yet
his colleagues liked him, perhaps because he was unobtrusive and
good-natured. At the beginning of each year he laid down a programme for
himself, and he was incapable of swerving from it. Already he had
acquired a thorough knowledge of both the manufacturing and the business
sides of earthenware manufacture, and also he was one of the few men, at
that period, who had systematically studied the chemistry of potting. He
could not fail to 'get on,' and to win universal respect. His chances of
a truly striking success would have been greater had he possessed
imagination, humour, or any sort of personal distinction. In appearance,
he was common, insignificant; to be appreciated, he 'wanted knowing';
but he was extremely sensitive and proud, and he could resent an
affront like a Gascon. He had apparently no humour whatever. The sole
spark of romance in him had been fanned into a small steady flame by his
passion for Ethel. Ryley was a man who could only love once for all.

'Did you find that private ledger for me out of the old safe?' Stanway
demanded.

'Yes,' said Ryley, 'and I put it in your safe, at the front, and gave
you the key back this morning.'

'I don't see it there,' Stanway retorted.

'Shall I look?