over ceaseless generations of chickens. Stable, barn, and one big outhouse of wide—12-inch—weatherboards, tarred. Big trees along the lane to the road "heliums," or beeches, or something it doesn't matter and "hashes" at the hend of it, "agenst the road." Also big, mossy logs that were never cut up for firewood. The short lane runs from the back of the house into the road, and from the road to the kitchen door, or, to be precise, to the outer kitchen, or slush-house, door. As seems the case with most farmhouses round here. The front approach and front door is either a mystery or a legend—a vague bucolic superstition. Maybe there was a front entrance, and visitors, and light—in other days.
Farmer's wife dead—the village people never talk of her to new-comers—perhaps not amongst themselves. Leonard took another woman, with a baby girl—his or some one else's—as housekeeper. Baby grown to fresh, pretty little English village beauty—"fresh" as a half -broken filly—"Miss Leonard." Her girl friend, adopted sister, or something, as companion.
Leonard, who has a little to do with the story, stands smoking—hand to pipe, casually—in the front back-side, or whatever it is, gateway, leading into the road. He is a stoutish man, calm, contented in the gloaming, with a calmness and content that he has made for himself, or rather has made his farm hands make for him (for he owns them body and soul)— with a smile that is watch-dog like, and not altogether bland at any time. Something suggestive of the mas-
