e to make as little as possible of him.

Mr. Skaggs came of a sound old country family in upper England, but
seems to have married a bit above his station. His wife was serving as
governess in the home of a certain earl when Taswell won her heart and
dragged her from the exalted position of minding other people's children
into the less conspicuous one of caring for her own. How the uncouth
country youth--not even a squire--overcame her natural prejudice against
the lower classes is not for me to explain. Sufficient to announce, they
were married and lived unhappily ever afterward.

Their only son was killed by a runaway horse when he was twenty, and
their daughter became the wife of an American named Browne when she was
scarcely out of her teens. It was then that Mr. Skaggs, practically
childless, determined to make himself wifeless as well.

He magnanimously deeded the unentailed farm to his wife, turned his
securities into cash and then set forth upon a voyage of exploration. It
is common history that upon one dark, still night in December he said
good-bye forever to the farm and its mistress; but it is doubtful if
either of them heard him.

To be "jolly well even" with him, Mrs. Skaggs did a most priggish thing.
She died six months later. But, before doing so, she made a will in
which she left the entire estate to her daughter, effectually depriving
the absent husband of any chance to reclaim his own.

Taswell Skaggs was in Shanghai when he heard the news. It was on a
Friday. His informant was that erstwhile friend, Jack Wyckholme.
Naturally, Skaggs felt deeply aggrieved with the fate which permitted
him to capitulate when unconditional surrender was so close at hand. His
language for one brief quarter of an hour did more to upset the progress
of Christian endeavour in the Far East than all the idols in the Chinese
Empire.

"There's nawthin' in England for me, Jackie. My gal's a bloomin'
foreigner by this time and she'll sell the bleedin' farm, of course.
She's an h'American, God bless 'er 'eart. I daresay if I'd go to 'er and
say I'd like my farm back again she'd want to fork hover, but 'er bloody
'usband wouldn't be for that sort of hextravagance. 'E'd boot me off the
hisland."

"The United States isn't an island, Tazzy," explained Mr. Wyckholme,
gulping his brandy and soda.

Mr. Wyckholme was the second son of Sir Somebody-or-other and had
married the vicar's daughter. This put him into such bad odour wit