I may be right. Who can
tell?

THE THIRD NARRATIVE

THE STORY CONTINUED BY PERCY FAIRBANK

XIV

We took leave of Francis Raven at the door of Farleigh Hall, with the
understanding that he might expect to hear from us again.

The same night Mrs. Fairbank and I had a discussion in the sanctuary of
our own room. The topic was "The Hostler's Story"; and the question in
dispute between us turned on the measure of charitable duty that we owed
to the hostler himself.

The view I took of the man's narrative was of the purely matter-of-fact
kind. Francis Raven had, in my opinion, brooded over the misty connection
between his strange dream and his vile wife, until his mind was in a state
of partial delusion on that subject. I was quite willing to help him with
a trifle of money, and to recommend him to the kindness of my lawyer, if
he was really in any danger and wanted advice. There my idea of my duty
toward this afflicted person began and ended.

Confronted with this sensible view of the matter, Mrs. Fairbank's romantic
temperament rushed, as usual, into extremes. "I should no more think of
losing sight of Francis Raven when his next birthday comes round," says my
wife, "than I should think of laying down a good story with the last
chapters unread. I am positively determined, Percy, to take him back with
us when we return to France, in the capacity of groom. What does one man
more or less among the horses matter to people as rich as we are?" In this
strain the partner of my joys and sorrows ran on, perfectly impenetrable
to everything that I could say on the side of common sense. Need I tell my
married brethren how it ended? Of course I allowed my wife to irritate me,
and spoke to her sharply.

Of course my wife turned her face away indignantly on the conjugal pillow,
and burst into tears. Of course upon that, "Mr." made his excuses, and
"Mrs." had her own way.

Before the week was out we rode over to Underbridge, and duly offered to
Francis Raven a place in our service as supernumerary groom.

At first the poor fellow seemed hardly able to realize his own
extraordinary good fortune. Recovering himself, he expressed his gratitude
modestly and becomingly. Mrs. Fairbank's ready sympathies overflowed, as
usual, at her lips. She talked to him about our home in France, as if the
worn, gray-headed hostler had been a child. "Such a dear old house,
Francis; and such pretty gardens! Stables! Stables ten times