"I asked him not to," he burst out. "I said if he'd only please
wait a bit and Edward would be back soon, and it couldn't
matter to HIM, and the pig wouldn't mind, and Edward'd be
pleased and everybody'd be happy. But he just said he was very
sorry, but bacon didn't wait for nobody. So I told him he was a
regular beast, and then I came away. And--and I b'lieve they're
doing it now!"

"Yes, he's a beast," agreed Selina, absently. She had forgotten
all about the pig-killing. Harold kicked away a freshly thrown-
up mole-hill, and prodded down the hole with a stick. From the
direction of Farmer Larkin's demesne came a long-drawn note of
sorrow, a thin cry and appeal, telling that the stout soul of a
black Berkshire pig was already faring down the stony track to
Hades.

"D'you know what day it is?" said Selina presently, in a low
voice, looking far away before her.

Harold did not appear to know, nor yet to care. He had laid
open his mole-run for a yard or so, and was still grubbing at it
absorbedly.

"It's Trafalgar Day," went on Selina, trancedly; "Trafalgar Day--
and nobody cares!"

Something in her tone told Harold that he was not behaving quite
becomingly. He didn't exactly know in what manner; still, he
abandoned his mole-hunt for a more courteous attitude of