"Of course," Mistress Prudence assented, her grief too recent to
allow a smile even at the picture of the late Waddilove (a man of
full habit) cleaving the air with frequent somersaults. She added,
not quite inconsequently:

"He is an angel."

"Of course," said Master Simon, in his turn.

"But I think," she went on, quite inconsequently, "I would rather
have a pair of carriers."

"Now, why in the world?" wondered Master Simon. He kept carrier
pigeons, to be sure. He kept pigeons of every sort--tumblers,
pouters, carriers, Belgians, dragons . . . the subdivisions, when you
came to them, were endless. But the carriers were by no means his
show-birds. He kept them mainly for the convenience of Ann the cook.
Ann had a cunning eye for a pigeon, and sometimes ventured a trifle
of her savings on a match; and though in his masculine pride he never
consulted her, Master Simon always felt more confident on hearing
that Ann had put money on his bird. Now, when a match took place at
some distant town or flying-ground, Ann would naturally be anxious to
learn the result as quickly as possible; and Master Simon, finding
that the suspense affected her cookery, had fallen into the habit of
taking a hamper of carriers to all distant meetings and speeding them
back to "Flowing Source" with tidings of his fortune. Apart from
this office--which they performed well enough--he took no special
pride in them. The offer of a pair of his pet tumblers, worth their
weight in gold, had cost him an effort; and when Mistress Prudence,
ordinarily a clear-headed woman, declared that she preferred