red tiles； as the Rector would point out to his guests
on the first night of their arrival； taking his brass candlestick；
and bidding them mind the steps up and the steps
down； and notice the immense thickness of the walls； the
old beams across the ceiling； the staircases as steep as
ladders； and the attics； with their deep； tentlike roofs；
in which swallows bred； and once a white owl。 But noth
ing very interesting or very beautiful had resulted from
the different additions made by the different rectors。
The house； however； was surrounded by a garden； in
which the Rector took considerable pride。 The lawn； which
fronted the drawingroom windows； was a rich and uniform
green； unspotted by a single daisy； and on the other
side of it two straight paths led past beds of tall； standing
flowers to a charming grassy walk； where the Rev。
Wyndham Datchet would pace up and down at the same
hour every morning； with a sundial to measure the time
for him。 As often as not； he carried a book in his hand；
into which he would glance； then shut it up； and repeat
the rest of the ode from memory。 He had most of Horace
by heart； and had got into the habit of connecting this
particular walk with certain odes which he repeated duly；
at the same time noting the condition of his flowers； and
stooping now and again to pick any that were withered
or overblown。 On wet days； such was the power of habit
over him； he rose from his chair at the same hour； and
paced his study for the same length of time； pausing now
and then to straighten some book in the bookcase； or
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alter the position of the two brass crucifixes standing
upon cairns of serpentine stone upon the mantelpiece。
His children had a great respect for him； credited him
with far more learning than he actually possessed； and
saw that his habits were not interfered with； if possible。
Like most people who do things methodically； the Rector
himself had more strength of purpose and power of self
sacrifice than of intellect or of originality。 On cold and
windy nights he rode off to visit sick people； who might
need him； without a murmur； and by virtue of doing dull
duties punctually； he was much employed upon mittees
and local Boards and Councils； and at this period of
his life （he was sixtyeight） he was beginning to be miserated
by tender old ladies for the extreme leanness
of his person； which； they said； was worn out upon the
roads when it should have been resting before a fortable
fire。 His elder daughter； Elizabeth； lived with him
and managed the house； and already much resembled him
in dry sincerity and methodical habit of mind； of the two
sons one； Richard； was an estate agent； the other； Christopher；
was reading for the Bar。 At Christmas； naturally；
they met together； and for a month past the arrangement
of the Christmas week had been much in the mind of
mistress and maid； who prided themselves every year more
confidently upon the excellence of their equipment。 The
late Mrs。 Datchet had left an excellent cupboard of linen；
to which Elizabeth had succeeded at the age of nieen；
when her mother died； and the charge of the family rested
upon the shoulders of the eldest daughter。 She kept a
fine flock of yellow chickens； sketched a little； certain
rosetrees in the garden were mitted specially to her
care； and what with the care of the house； the care of the
chickens； and the care of the poor； she scarcely knew
what it was to have an idle minute。 An extreme rectitude
of mind； rather than any gift； gave her weight in the
family。 When Mary wrote to say that she had asked Ralph
Denham to stay with them； she added； out of deference
to Elizabeth’s character； that he was very nice； though
rather queer； and had been overworking himself in London。
No doubt Elizabeth would conclude that Ralph was
in love with her； but there could be no doubt either that
not a word of this would be spoken by either of them；
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unless； indeed； some catastrophe made mention of it unavoidable。
Mary went down to Disham without knowing whether
Ralph intended to e； but two or three days before
Christmas she received a telegram from Ralph； asking her
to take a room for him in the village。 This was followed
by a letter explaining that he hoped he might have his
meals with them； but quiet； essential for his work； made
it necessary to sleep out。
Mary was walking in the garden with Elizabeth； and
inspecting the roses； when the letter arrived。
“But that’s absurd；” said Elizabeth decidedly； when the
plan was explained to her。 “There are five spare rooms；
even when the boys are here。 Besides； he wouldn’t get a
room in the village。 And he oughtn’t to work if he’s overworked。”
“But perhaps he doesn’t want to see so much of us；”
Mary thought to herself； although outwardly she assented；
and felt grateful to Elizabeth for supporting her in what
was； of course； her desire。 They were cutting roses at the
time； and laying them； head by head； in a shallow basket。
“If Ralph were here； he’d find this very dull；” Mary
thought； with a little shiver of irritation； which led her
to place her rose the wrong way in the basket。 Meanwhile；
they had e to the end of the path； and while
Elizabeth straightened some flowers； and made them stand
upright within their fence of string； Mary looked at her
father； who was pacing up and down； with his hand behind
his back and his head bowed in meditation。 Obeying
an impulse which sprang from some desire to interrupt
this methodical marching； Mary stepped on to the
grass walk and put her hand on his arm。
“A flower for your buttonhole； father；” she said； presenting
a rose。
“Eh； dear？” said Mr。 Datchet； taking the flower； and
holding it at an angle which suited his bad eyesight；
without pausing in his walk。
“Where does this fellow e from？ One of Elizabeth’s
roses—I hope you asked her leave。 Elizabeth doesn’t like having
her roses picked without her leave； and quite right； too。”
He had a habit； Mary remarked； and she had never noticed
it so clearly before； of letting his sentences tail
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away in a continuous murmur； whereupon he passed into
a state of abstraction； presumed by his children to indicate
some train of thought too profound for utterance。
“What？” said Mary； interrupting； for the first time in
her life； perhaps； when the murmur ceased。 He made no
reply。 She knew very well that he wished to be left alone；
but she stuck to his side much as she might have stuck to
some sleepwalker； whom she thought it right gradually
to awaken。 She could think of nothing to rouse him with
except：
“The garden’s looking very nice； father。”
“Yes； yes； yes；” said Mr。 Datchet； running his words together
in the same abstracted manner； and sinking his
head yet lower upon his breast。 And suddenly； as they
turned their steps to retrace their way； he jerked out：
“The traffic’s very much increased； you know。 More rolling
stock needed already。 Forty trucks went down yesterday
by the 12。15—counted them myself。 They’ve taken
off the 9。3； and given us an 8。30 instead—suits the business
men； you know。 You came by the old 3。10 yesterday；
I suppose？”
She said “Yes；” as he seemed to wish for a reply； and
then he looked at his watch； and made off down the path
towards the house； holding the rose at the same angle in
front of him。 Elizabeth had gone round to the side of the
house； where the chickens lived； so that Mary found herself
alone； holding Ralph’s letter in her hand。 She was
uneasy。 She had put off the season for thinking things
out very successfully； and now that Ralph was actually
ing； the next day； she could only wonder how her
family would impress him。 She thought it likely that her
father would discuss the train service with him； Elizabeth
would be bright and sensible； and always leaving
the room to give messages to the servants。 Her brothers
had already said that they would give him a day’s shooting。
She was content to leave the problem of Ralph’s
relations to the young men obscure； trusting that they
would find some mon ground of masculine agreement。
But what would he think of her？ Would he see that she
was different from the rest of the family？ She devised a
plan for taking him to her sittingroom； and artfully leading
the talk towards the English poets； who now occu
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Night and Day
pied prominent places in her little bookcase。 Moreover；
she might give him to understand； privately； that she；
too； thought her family a queer one—queer； yes； but not
dull。 That was the rock past which she was bent on steering
him。 And she thought how she would draw his attention
to Edward’s passion for Jorrocks； and the enthusiasm
which led Christopher to collect moths and butterflies
though he was now twentytwo。 Perhaps Elizabeth’s
sketching； if the fruits were invisible； might lend color to
the general effect which she wished to produce of a family；
eccentric and li