tour. And these two heard what passed.

Hogarth stood suspended, finding no words, till one cried: "Do you
mean to put the cap on?"

He laughed a little now. "_I!_ The whip! The whip!"--he showed his
hunting-crop, and was gone.

His manner of speech was rapid, and he had a hoarse sort of voice,
almost as of sore-throat.

Of the two not farmers, one--the author--enquired as to his name,
and farm; the other man--the Moghrabim Jew-that evening recounted to
Frankl the words which he had heard.

* * * * * * *

One afternoon, two weeks later, Loveday, the author, was leaning
upon a stile, talking to Margaret Hogarth; and he said: "I love you!
If you could _deign_--"

"Truth is," she said, "you are in love with my brother, Dick, and
you think it is me!"

She was a woman of twenty-five, large and buxom, though neat-
waisted, her face beautifully fresh and wholesome, and he of middle-
size, with a lazy ease of carriage, small eyes set far apart, a
blue-velvet jacket, duck trousers very dirty, held up by a belt, a
red shirt, an old cloth hat, a careless carle, greatly famed.