ke a lot o' you--one time an' another since you came. We
thank you kindly," the man added.

"Are you the son that was in America?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. On my uncle's farm, in Connecticut. He was what they call
rood-master there."

"Whereabouts in Connecticut?" asked George over her shoulder.

"Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my uncle."

"How small the world is!" Sophie cried. "Why, all my mother's people
come from Veering Hollow. There must be some there still--the Lashmars.
Did you ever hear of them?"

"I remember hearing that name, seems to me," he answered, but his face
was blank as the back of a spade.

A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a foot-soldier, and
bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through the orchard calling for
food. George, upon whom the unannounced English worked mysteriously,
fled to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke came forward beaming. Sophie could
not escape.

"We've only just heard of it;" said the stranger, turning on her. "I've
been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly sportin'
thing--"

"Did you--er--kill?" said Sophie. She knew from books she could not go
far wrong here.

"Yes, a dry bitch--seventeen pounds," was the answer. "A splendidly
sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden--"

"Oh--that!" said Sophie, enlightened.

"If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have happened.
He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect from a parcel of
London solicitors?"

Mrs. Cloke murmured something.

"No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get
chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat one of your sandwiches
as I go." She wiped her weather-worn face with a green and yellow silk
handkerchief.

"Yes, my lady!" Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly.

"Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south," she explained,
waving the full cup, "but one has quite enough to do with one's own
people without poachin'. Still, if I'd known, I'd have sent Dora, of
course. Have you seen her this afternoon, Mrs. Cloke? No? I wonder
whether that girl did sprain her ankle. Thank you." It was a formidable
hunk of bread and bacon that Mrs. Cloke presented. "As I was sayin',
Pardons is a scandal! Lettin' people die like dogs. There ought to be
people there who do their duty. You've done yours, though there wasn't
the faintest call upon you. Good night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I've
gone o