"Yes, and he came; but Mrs. Mallet has some extraordinary story about
his falling into his bucket and spoiling his Sunday coat, and going home
at once to change it. I can't make it out, but nothing is done to the
ceiling."

"I make it out," said Atherley; "I make out that he was a little the
worse for drink. Have we not a plasterer in the village?"

"I think there is one. I fancy the Jacksons did not wish us to employ
him, because he is a dissenter; but after all, giving him work is not
the same as giving him presents."

"No, indeed; nor do I see why, because he is a dissenter, I, who am only
an infidel, am to put up with a hole in my ceiling."

"Only, I don't know what his name is."

"His name is Smart. Everybody in our village is called Smart--most
inappropriately too."

"No, George, the man the doctor told us about who is so dangerously
ill is called Monk."

"I am glad to hear it; but he doesn't belong to our parish, though he
lives so close. He is actually in Rood Warren. His cottage is at the
other side of the Common."

"Then we can leave the wine and things as we go. And, George, while the
boys are having tea with Aunt Eleanour, I think I shall drive on to
Quarley Beacon and try and persuade Cecilia to come back and spend the