ears. His knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and
stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that
he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.

When he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and
looked about him.

'That was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze,' he remarked; 'and
those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly
between mouthfuls. There is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder
rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland. The river runs
somewhere close by, for I hear the call of a moorhen, and I see by your
build that you're a freshwater mariner. Everything seems asleep, and
yet going on all the time. It is a goodly life that you lead, friend; no
doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!'

'Yes, it's THE life, the only life, to live,' responded the Water Rat
dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.

'I did not say exactly that,' replied the stranger cautiously; 'but no
doubt it's the best. I've tried it, and I know. And because I've just
tried it--six months of it--and know it's the best, here am I, footsore
and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the old
call, back to the old life, THE life which is mine and which will not
let me go.'

'Is this, then, yet another of them?' mused the Rat. 'And where have
you just come from?' he asked. He hardly dared to ask where he was bound
for; he seemed to know the answer only too well.

'Nice little farm,' replied the wayfarer, briefly. 'Upalong in that
direction'--he nodded northwards. 'Never mind about it. I had everything
I could want--everything I had any right to expect of life, and more;
and here I am! Glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here!
So many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart's
desire!'

His shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening
for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it
was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard.

'You are not one of US,' said the Water Rat, 'nor yet a farmer; nor
even, I should judge, of this country.'

'Right,' replied the stranger. 'I'm a seafaring rat, I am, and the
port I originally hail from is Constantinople, though I'm a sort of a
foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking. You will have heard of
Constantinople, friend? A fair cit