poverty--so unpicturesque, so unwinning, to shallow sight so
unpathetic--and I put out my hand and let it rest for a moment on his
own, knotted with rheumatism, stained and seamed with toil. Then he
looked up at me from under his shaggy brows with haggard, wistful eyes,
and gasped: "It's hard work, sir; it's hard work." And I went out into
the sunshine, feeling that I had heard the epitome of his life.

That night Mrs. Mallet surpassed herself by her rendering of a menu,
especially composed by Atherley for the delectation of their guest.
Their pains were not wasted. The Canon's commendation of each
course--and we talked of little else, I remember, from soup to
dessert--was as discriminating as it was warm.

"I am glad you approve of our cook, Uncle," said Lady Atherley in the
drawing-room afterwards, "for she is only a stop-gap. Our own cook left
us quite suddenly the other day, and we had such difficulty in finding
this one to take her place. No one can imagine how inconvenient it is to
have a haunted house."

"My dear Jane, you don't mean to tell me you are afraid of ghosts?"

"Oh no, Uncle."

"And I am sure your husband is not?"

"No; but unfortunately cooks are."

"Eh! what?"

Then Lady Atherley willingly repeated the story of her troubles.