he silly man. He struts about the village as though he were doing
us a favour to grace it with his presence. He puts a thumb in each
arm-hole of his waistcoat, wears a constant smile on his flabby face
when in public, and nods at everybody as he passes, in the most
condescending way imaginable.

He is quite an under-sized man, but broad all the way down; it looks as
though at some time in his life, when he may have been very soft and
putty-like, a heavy hand had been placed on his head, and he had been
compressed into a foot less height. What gives reality to the
impression is the extreme length of his trousers, which hang over his
boots in folds.

The delight of his eyes and the joy of his heart is neither wife nor
child, but a smooth-haired terrier which brings in the living, such as
it is.

During the summer months Roger and his dog frequent the popular seaside
resorts and give beach entertainments of "an 'igh-class character" to
quote Roger himself. In the winter months they secure engagements at
music-halls, bazaars, school-entertainments and the like, when the
income is more precarious.

Ordinarily the man is not home until October, but unfortunately the
dog's health broke down in the latter part of August, and Roger came
home to save the cost of lodgings, and to get drink on credit. For,
almost alone among the villagers, this man gets drunk day by day with
marked consistency; and if he is irritating when sober he is nothing
less than contemptible when intoxicated. He then becomes more suave
than ever, and his mouth curves into a smile which reaches his ears,
but he is more stupid and obstinate than the proverbial mule. And the
worst of it is he drinks at home, for the nearest inn is above a mile
away, so his unhappy wife has a rough time of it. Yet he is not
actively unkind to her; he does not beat her body--he merely starves
and wounds her soul.

She is a thin, wasted woman, about thirty years old, I suppose, of more
than average intelligence, and one of the best needlewomen I have ever
seen. She does beautiful work for which she is wretchedly paid, but it
serves to keep the home together. I cannot help thinking that she is
suffering from some serious disease, but she herself refuses to harbour
any such thought. I am very much interested in her and little Lucy,
and during the summer have paid them many a visit and been cheered by
the little girl's delightful prattle.

They live in a very poor