here who is
'in trouble'?--you know what I mean. It is such a terrible crime in
this part of the country, and she looks so wretched and frightened, poor
little thing! She is twenty years old. She wants a hiding-place for her
misfortune, and somewhere to go when it is over. Nobody, she says,
will have anything to do with her where they know; and, really, I have
noticed for a long time how white and wretched she looks, with great
black frightened eyes. I don't like to apply to our Rector, for though
he is a good fellow in many ways, he has such strong opinions; and, of
course, Horace could do nothing. I would like to do something for her,
and I could spare a little money, but I can't find a place for her to
go, and that makes it difficult. She seems to be haunted, too, by the
idea that wherever she goes it will come out. Isn't it dreadful? Do do
something, if you can. I am rather anxious about George. I hope the dear
boy is well. If you are passing his club some day you might look in and
just ask after him. He is sometimes so naughty about writing. I wish
we could see you here, dear Grig; the country is looking beautiful just
now--the oak-trees especially--and the apple-blossom isn't over, but I
suppose you are too busy. How is Helen Bellew? Is she in town?

"Your affectionate cousin,

"MARGERY PENDYCE."

It was four o'clock this same afternoon when the second groom, very much
out of breath, informed the butler that there was a fire at Peacock's
farm. The butler repaired at once to the library. Mr. Pendyce, who had
been on horseback all the morning, was standing in his riding-clothes,
tired and depressed, before the plan of Worsted Skeynes.

"What do you want, Bester?"

"There is a fire at Peacock's farm, sir." Mr. Pendyce stared.

"What?" he said. "A fire in broad daylight! Nonsense!"

"You can see the flames from the front, sir." The worn and querulous
look left Mr. Pendyce's face.

"Ring the stable-bell!" he said. "Tell them all to run with buckets
and ladders. Send Higson off to Cornmarket on the mare. Go and tell Mr.
Barter, and rouse the village. Don't stand there--God bless me! Ring the
stable-bell!" And snatching up his riding-crop and hat, he ran past the
butler, closely followed by the spaniel John.

Over the stile and along the footpath which cut diagonally across a
field of barley he moved at a stiff trot, and his spaniel, who had not
grasped the situation, frolicked ahead with a certain surprise.