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it." At which Mahony, who had himself, aloud and in secret, rung changes on this theme, regarded the speaker -- his paunch, due to insufficient exercise; his sheeplike, inexperienced old face; his dark little living-room, and darker still, mysterious, provincial manner -- looked, and knew that he did not, in the very least, mean the same thing any more.
    * * * * *
    "Come, give over, Mary!" said Mother affectionately.
    Mother sat by the fire in the twilight, her hands folded placidly in her lap. She was neither a sewer nor a knitter. If not nimbly trotting about the house, in aid of the rheumaticky old servant, she liked best to sit still and do nothing; which Richard said made her a most soothing companion. Her words were addressed to Mary, who was rattling a sewing-machine as if her life depended on it. They also referred to a remark passed in a pause of her handle-twirling. This had constituted a criticism of Richard -- or as much of a criticism as Mary could rise to. Which, here, she felt quite safe in making, so surely did she know Richard nested in Mother's heart.
    That afternoon -- it was December, and night now soon after three o'clock -- he had -- and not for the first time -- stepped over the low railing that separated the garden-plots to say: "Come, Lisby, let us go a-gallivanting!" Nothing loath, Lisby, also not for the first time, laid aside her needle, tied on bonnet and tippet, and off they went arm-in-arm, to prowl round the lighted shops of the town.
    Mary's objection was: "But if he's wanted, mother! I shouldn't know where to send for him."
    "My dear, Eliza would find him for you in less than half an hour. -- Besides, Mary, it's very unlikely anyone would want him in such a hurry as all that."
    "Yes, I suppose so. It's me that's silly. But you see, in Ballarat he never dreamt of going out without leaving word just where he was to be found. Indeed, he seldom went out for pleasure at all. He was much too busy."
    Mother did not put the question that would have leapt, under similar conditions, to Lisby's lips: "Then, why, in the name of fortune, did he leave it?" She only said: "You must have patience, my dear."
    "Oh, it's not me -- it's him I'm afraid of. Patience is one of the things Richard hasn't got."
    There was a brief silence. Then: "You have a very good husband, Mary. Value him, my dear, at his true worth. -- Nay, child, let the lamp be. Can't you sit idle for half an hour?"
    She stirred the fire to a blaze which lit up their faces, and the many-folded drapery of their gowns.
    "I know that, mother. But he doesn't get easier to manage as he grows older. In some ways Richard is most difficult -- very, very queer."
    "And pray, doesn't the old tree get knobby and gnarled? . . . Take a hint from your mother, my dear -- for though, Mary, you've been so long away from me, I know my own flesh and blood as no one else can. Be glad, child, not sorry, if Richard has his little faults and failings -- even if you can't understand 'em. They help to bind him. For his roots in this world don't go deep, Mary. He doesn't set proper store on the prizes other men hanker after -- money and position and influence, and such like." She paused again, to add: "It's a real misfortune, my dear, you have no children."
    "Yes, and me so fond of them, too. But I'm not sure about Richard. He's got used, now, to being without them, to having only himself to consider. I'm afraid he'd find them in the way."
    "And yet it was of Richard I was thinking," said the old lady gently.
    "You say he's hard to manage, Mary," she went on. "But la! child, what does that matter? He's kind, generous, straight as a die -- I'm sure I'm right in believing he's never done a mean action in his life?"
    "Never! It isn't in him."
    "Well, then!" said Mother: and her cheerful old tone was like a verbal poke in the ribs. "He might be easier to manage, Mary -- and thoughtless . . . or stingy . . . or attentive to other women. You little know what you're spared, child,