ithdrawn. Since wellnigh the whole
of the estate was edged by road, the erection of the fence at once cost
them seclusion and showed them how dear they valued it.

All day long the World and his Wife passed by, kindly, mocking, or
silent--but always curious. The little fellowship became resentfully
self-conscious.... Old wounds reopened; forgotten infirmities lifted
up their heads. The three great sailors remembered that they were
deaf. The little engineer noticed his trailing leg. The lean,
grey-headed joiner thought of the wife who had left him: his fellow
recalled the cries of a dying child. Anthony minded Miss French. Only
the two old carters were spared the ordeal, their labour keeping them
busy under the cover of the woods. Winchester himself felt the unusual
exposure most of all. But that the fence was to give them the
fee-simple of privacy, he would have abandoned the enterprise. It was
not that he was ashamed, but, as an atelier, he had no use for a
house-top. "Working in a shop-window," he styled it. If he detested
publicity, his resentment of idle curiosity was painfully apparent.
Once or twice, indeed, he had broken out and, in a voice of thunder,
bade loiterers begone. Happily they had always obeyed....

Anthony finished his lunch, gave a few pieces to Patch, quenched his
thirst with a draught of well-water out of an old beer-bottle, and got
upon his feet. Winchester had not reappeared, so he strolled across to
the fir-tree which had been marked for destruction. As usual, his
employer was perfectly right. It would be idle to carry the paling
along this piece of bank and leave the tree standing to menace fence
and foundation. The sooner it was out of the way, the better.

He crossed to where the sailors were crowded about the engineer, who
was drawing a rough diagram upon the sawn face of timber to illustrate
some argument. Hard by, upon a log, the joiners were smoking and
conversing in a low tone.

"Where are the axes, Blake? The Colonel and I are going to fell that
fir."

The grey-headed joiner rose and stepped to a rough litter covered by a
tarpaulin. The latter, being turned back, displayed a travelling
armoury of tools. As he lifted two axes out of their slots, Winchester
came thrusting out of the undergrowth.

"Ready, Lyveden?" he queried. "Right."

Anthony flung off his coat, made Patch fast to a convenient bush--you
could not be too careful when trees were falling--and