thing was settled between him and Marion Stace, he reproached himself for his neglect.

"Let's call around and see him tonight," he said to his girl; "he'd be rare pleased to see you, and it'll be a fine, friendly walk for us over the hill."

So they went out in the last sunshine of the June day, in the slow raking yellow light which strokes the Downs before sunset. Their shadows, long and clear of line, went before them to Alciston, though they lost them in the Bostal Way, where the dusk was already lying between the banks. They found them again in the big ploughed fields of Place, moving over the bright, fierce green of the young oats. . . . Sometimes they were separate, sometimes they were one mingled darkness in which Daniel and Marion stood, as it were married by the

"But this is what I like best, surelye." "Lath and plaster and osier-thatch! I'll give you better. . .

They went in and found the old man propped up and waiting for them. But he had changed a good deal since Daniel's last visit. The tan was fading from his hands and cheeks, leaving him the queer ghost of himself, who had always been brown as a russet pear. He was also a little inclined to wander in his mind. Daniel was unable to make him quite understand who Marion was. Sometimes she ceased to be Maas' Sheather's young woman, and became a daughter, Mary, or even once the girl Ellen Bourne, who afterward had been Ellen Gadgett for thirty-five years.

But he willingly showed her his teeth, which he kept under his pillow wrapped in a clean cotton handkerchief.

"They're to be buried with me," he said, showing his acceptance of that final unreasonableness which allowed not only

VOL. CXLV.-No. 867-44

sickness but death to claim him after seventy-five years.

"Don't talk of burying, Mr. Gadgett," said Daniel, working at the old illusion, "you'll be out again yet."

"No-never again. I mun know it. I'll die in this bed where I lie. Passon he's been to see me, and he reads me solemn out of the Book. Reckon the time's come when I mun go to my own Shepherd. I'd say naun if it wurn't fur the lambing, and that I was unaccountable set on going into the town and having my likeness taken. I asked Passon and Doctor both for a lift into town in their traps, but they both said it cudn't be done. It's a sad thing, surelye-for all the time I was a-making 'em I thought of how fine it ud be to have my likeness took wud a full set of teeth-me as they've soaked the bread fur a dunnamany year. .. My crusts in hot water, you remember, my dear so as they shudn't be wasted. You was a wunnerful girl fur waste.

They left him a few minutes after that, and on the doorstep found the parson, come for an evening call. When he had congratulated Daniel and Marion, they talked of the old man within.

"He won't last much longer now," said the vicar, "and one mustn't hope for it. His wife, daughters, everyoneall gone before him. He says he'll be glad to follow. But he's got a queer uncontrollable fancy to have his photograph taken. He's asked both the doctor and me if he couldn't somehow be got into Lewes for it. I don't know who he wants to give it to-he hasn't a soul left."

"He was talking to us about that, sir," said Daniel.

"It's probably an effect of his illnesshis mind wanders a bit. I offered to take a snapshot of him on a sunny day, but evidently he doesn't trust the amateur."

He went into the cottage, and the young couple started on their lingering walk over the Down.

They had so much in each other to absorb them that it was not till they

were walking through the village that Marion said, "Daniel, why shouldn't you and me pay for a photographer to go out and take a likeness of old Mr. Gadgett?"

"Would he ever do such a thing?"

"Of course-if he's paid. Why, photographers went out to Beddingham Court the day Miss Alice was married, and took a likeness of her and her bridegroom-and they've been to Place for the foxhounds-and I dunno where else besides, for houseparties and such." "But that's only the big houses. They'd never go to old Gadgett."

"They'd go if we paid their price, and I don't see why we shouldn't. It'll be a dying comfort to the poor old man. Let's you and me, call in to Robins when we go to Lewes on Saturday, and if it costs a terrible lot of money, we can take it off the cake.

This might have been the reason why the Sheather-Stace wedding cake was only two tiers high. Still, everyone said it was a very good cake, and Daniel and Marion, standing flushed and stiff and happy in their respective bridal black and white had no regrets for that topmost crown with its sugar vase and silver hearts. They held secretly themselves the crowning sweetness and silver heart of life, so could dispense with sugar and paper images for their neighbors' delectation.

Besides, as Marion said and Daniel agreed, they had done the proper thing by Mr. Gadgett, poor old soul. He had had his likeness taken, as his heart desired, and they would never forget his delight, though pleasure expressed in a smile of fifty teeth is not the most beautiful thing to remember.

He was almost in his last stupor then, slipping back more and more deeply into the past-into the days of Ellen Gadgett and Mary Gadgett, and deeper still into the days of Ellen Bourne, and then right down at last to the bottom of the house of his mind, where lived another Mary Gadgett, who used to give him his break

fast of flour dumpling and hot water before sending him out with his wooden rattle to scare the birds from the orchards of Heronsdale, over by Waldron where he was born.

But he revived when he saw them come in, Daniel and Marion, and Mr. Robins of Lewes High Street with his camera. They told him what was to happen, and with fumbling old hands he groped under his pillow for his cherished teeth. There they were, wrapped up and clean, and soon his pleasure was silent as (helped by Daniel this time) he fixed them ready for action.

Mr. Robins maintained his professional aloofness while the curtains were pulled to and fro over the tiny, hermetically shut window, and the light adjusted-a difficult matter in that low room of gleams and shadows.

"Now, quite still, please while I count thirty....

And the marvel was accomplished.

The old man's work had been given its immortality: "Now everyone ull know I had a set of teeth as fine as anybody's."

It was the memory of those words which made Daniel and Marion put his photograph with its terrifying smile in a conspicuous place in their new parlor. Otherwise, it would have been excusable of them to have buried it in an album, or at least have hidden it behind the wedding-group on the chiffonier. . .

"But he wanted himself to be seen,' said Daniel.

So the neighbors saw what old Gadgett himself had never seen, for by the time the proofs were ready he had sunk back so far into the past that it had closed over his head, and neither the present nor the future, with its promise of survival for the work of his hands, could reach him where he drowsed in the old days-strange old days when the railways had not come to Sussex and the stage coach still rolled and lurched in the ruts of the Lewes road . . . bad old days when farm laborers were paid eight shillings a week, and Mary Gadgett had

MR.

R. GEOFFREY JONES-everybody called him G.J.-was sitting beside Mrs. Travers on the sofa in her drawing-room, looking into the fire. It was a cold, wet winter's afternoon, foggy withal, twilight already darkening the windows. The sweet, thin, ghostly fragrance of some Japanese lilies filled the room; firelight played delicately over the smooth polished surfaces of old brass candlesticks and Georgian silver, the gilt bindings of books on long white shelves, tea cups, and bright Chinese embroideries; it was very warm and comfortable and quiet. A vague uneasiness, however, haunted Mr. Jones. He knew that Mrs. Travers was watching him, much as a cat watches a mouse, and he was trying to think of something to say -something tactful, or charming. In this he was not exceedingly successful. Thus, the silence of the room was unbroken-pensive, expectant, and prolonged. It was what Mr. Jones, in a more lucid moment, would call a "silent minute of remembrance."

"I'm told," said Mrs. Travers at last, "that you've been back for several weeks. I must say I think it's it's odd, G.J., you haven't come to see me earlier than this, considering—'

"That's it," interrupted Mr. Jones, looking at Mrs. Travers and then into the fire again. "That's it-considering"

"Of course it is!-very odd indeed." "Oh, I don't mean that!" exclaimed Mr. Jones.

"Then, what do you mean, G.J.?" Mr. Jones coughed and continued to look steadily into the fire. As a matter of fact, he meant something suspiciously like it, still, he could hardly say as much; the trouble was, he could think of noth

ing else to say. Consequently there was another appreciable pause; and then, suddenly, a stroke of pure inspiration occurred to him-one of those adroit little romantic essays in fiction every woman likes to hear and never wholly disbelieves.

"Well, I thought it better," Mr. Jones said slowly, "not to come and see you. Better, that is, so far as I'm concerned. You see, it's too-but then you understand, Mary. You-you always have," he added, breaking off abruptly and staring into the fire as if rather uncertain of his self-possession.