y, let me see his Will."

"I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under his
pillow, and he'd see me, while he's active."

"I only want to know if it's the one I made," said Soames; "you take a
look at its date some time, and let me know."

"Yes, sir; but I'm sure it's the same, because me and Cook witnessed,
you remember, and there's our names on it still, and we've only done it
once."

"Quite!" said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had been proper
witnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they might have no
interest in Timothy's death. It had been--he fully admitted--an almost
improper precaution, but Timothy had wished it, and, after all, Aunt
Hester had provided for them amply.

"Very well," he said; "good-bye, Smither. Look after him, and if he
should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me know."

"Oh! yes, Mr. Soames; I'll be sure to do that. It's been such a
pleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell her."

Soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. He stood for fully two
minutes by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. 'So
it all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. Poor old
chap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy trailing his
hobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or some ghost of an
old face show over the banisters, and an old voice say: "Why, it's dear
Soames, and we were only saying that we hadn't seen him for a week!"

Nothing--nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a
sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! A
mausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train.

V

THE NATIVE HEATH

"His foot's upon his native heath,
His name's--Val Dartie."

With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age,
set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-house
he had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination was
Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when he
stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to
give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket.

"Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much."

With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking
into his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate;
Holly was always right--she had