lf to inquire how
this man, who could talk with such evident intelligence, came to have
chosen the moor for an abiding-place, and it happened that by chance I
learned his whole history.

I was walking across the moor with my friend the district local
preacher, when a sudden whim prompted me to ask him to meet the strange
creature whom I had seen. We went to the cottage, and were received by
the deep baying of the dog. The stooping figure came out into the
sunlight, and my friend the preacher said, "Bless my soul! Henry
Desborough! What in the name of mercy has brought you here?"

Not a sign of emotion crossed the face of the Failure.

He said, "You ought to know, Musgrave. I was always a creature of
whims."

"That is exactly what I do not know," said Musgrave.

"You are thinking of the times before I was twenty-five. Several
centuries have passed over me since then."

Musgrave seemed unable to carry on the talk. He only said, "I take it
very unkindly that you did not let me know you were here. I will come
back and see you alone the next time. You have given me a sad heart for
this day."

I knew now that there was a history in the case, and I learned it all
from the man most concerned.

A long time ago a concert had been given in a small town somewhere down
the coast. An imposing musician had been brought from London especially
to train the choir, and the rustic mind was awed by preparations. On
the night of the concert Desborough, who was the son of a man of
independent means, strolled in and took a seat on one of the front
benches. Chairs had been pressed into the service from all over the
town, and the platform, with its decorations, was a fine imaginative
effort. The Squire was there, and Sir John, the county member, brought
his wife and her diamonds. After the imposing musician had conducted one
or two glees, there was a little rustle of preparation, and a girl
stepped forth to sing. To the tradesmen of the town she was simply Polly
Blanchflower, but to the thinking of one young man, who sat within a few
yards of her, she ought to have been throned among stars. He had mixed
little in company, and from the first time that the girl's eyes fell
upon him he was a changed man.

She sang the "Flowers of the Forest." Where she had learnt her art I do
not know, and the imposing musician from London could not guess. As she
sang, Desborough fancied he could hear the cry of bereaved women. When
the last verse came,