e edge of a deal table, and
across the smoke she too seemed to be swaying.

IV

Seventeen years later Nat Ellery walked down the hill into Gantick
village, and entered the King of the Bells.

"I've come," said he, "to inquire about a chest I left here, one time
back along." And he told his name and the date.

The landlord, Joshua Martin--son of old Joshua, who had kept the inn
in 1806--rubbed his double chin. "So you be Nat Ellery? I can just
mind'ee as a lad. As for the chest--come to think, father sent it back
to Trethake Water. Reckon it went in the sale."

"What sale?"

"Why, don't 'ee know? When Reub sold up. That would be about five
years after the old folks died. The mill didn' pay after the war, so
Reub sold up and emigrated."

"Ah! What became of him?"

"I did hear he was dead too," said Joshua Martin, "out in Canady
somewhere. But that may be lies," he added cheerfully.

Nat made no further comment, but paid for his gin-and-water, picked up
his carpet bag, and went out to seek for a cottage. On his way he eyed
the thatched roofs critically. "Old Thatcher Hockaday will be dead,"
he told himself. "There's work for me here." He felt certain of it in
Farmer Sprague's rick-yard. Farmer Sprague owned the two round-houses
at the seaward end of the village, and wanted a tenant for one of
them. Nat applied for it, and declared his calling.

"Us can't afford to pay the old prices these times," said the farmer.

Nat's eyes had wandered off to the ricks. "You'll find you can when
you've seen my work," he answered.

Thus he became tenant of the round-house, and lived in it to the day
of his death. No one in my day knew when or how the story first spread
that he had been in the army and deserted. Perhaps he let slip the
secret in his cups; for at first he spent his Saturday evenings at the
King of Bells, dropping this habit when he found that every soul there
disliked him. Perhaps some discharged veteran of the 4th, tramping
through Gantick in search of work, had recognised him and let fall
a damning hint. Long before I can remember the story had grown up
uncontradicted, believed in by everyone. Beneath it the man lived on
and deteriorated; but his workmanship never deteriorated, and no man
challenged its excellence.

About a month before his death (I have this from the postmistress) he
sat down and wrote a letter, and ten days later a visitor arrived at
the round-house. This visitor the Jago family (who