Neither gentleman made any comment.

"I like it," pursued Mr. Turnbull, longingly; "always did, from a child."

The two young men looked at each other; then they looked at Venia; the
sergeant assumed an expression of careless ease, while John Blundell sat
his chair like a human limpet. Mr. Turnbull almost groaned as he
remembered his tenacity.

"The garden's looking very nice," he said, with a pathetic glance round.

"Beautiful," assented the sergeant. "I saw it yesterday."

"Some o' the roses on that big bush have opened a bit more since then,"
said the farmer.

Sergeant Daly expressed his gratification, and said that he was not
surprised. It was only ten days since he had arrived in the village on a
visit to a relative, but in that short space of time he had, to the great
discomfort of Mr. Blundell, made himself wonderfully at home at Mr.
Turnbull's. To Venia he related strange adventures by sea and land, and
on subjects of which he was sure the farmer knew nothing he was a perfect
mine of information. He began to talk in low tones to Venia, and the
heart of Mr. Blundell sank within him as he noted her interest. Their
voices fell to a gentle murmur, and the sergeant's sleek, well-brushed
head bent closer to that of his listener. Relieved from his attentions,
Mr. Turnbull fell asleep without more ado.

Blundell sat neglected, the unwilling witness of a flirtation he was
powerless to prevent. Considering her limited opportunities, Miss