get as far as the pigs at Lockyer’s farm; the rectory gate was painted a dull unobtrusive green, but it had been white a year or two ago, and the Brogue never forgot that he had been in the habit of making a violent curtsey, a back-pedal and a swerve at this particular point of the road. Subsequently, there being apparently no further call on his services, he broke his way into the rectory orchard, where he found a hen turkey in a coop; later visitors to the orchard found the coop almost intact, but very little left of the turkey. Mr. Penricarde, a little stunned and shaken, and suffering from a bruised knee and some minor damages, good-naturedly ascribed the accident to his own inexperience with horses and country roads, and allowed Jessie to nurse him back into complete recovery and golf-fitness within something less than a week. In the list of wedding presents which the local newspaper published a fortnight or so later appeared the following item: "Brown saddle-horse, ‘The Brogue,’ bridegroom’s gift to bride." "Which shows," said Toby Mullet, "that he knew nothing." "Or else," said Clovis, "that he has a very pleasing wit." THE HEN “Dora Bittholz is coming on Thursday,” said Mrs. Sangrail. “This next Thursday?” asked Clovis His mother nodded. “You’ve rather done it, haven’t you?” he chuckled; “Jane Martlet has only been here five days, and she never stays less than a fortnight, even when she’s asked definitely for a week. You’ll never get her out of the house by Thursday.” “Why should I?” asked Mrs. Sangrail; “she and Dora are good friends, aren’t they? They used to be, as far as I remember.” “They used to be; that’s what makes them all the more bitter now. Each feels that she has nursed a viper in her bosom. Nothing fans the flame of human resentment so much as the discovery that one’s bosom has been utilised as a snake sanatorium.” “But what has happened? Has some one been making mischief?” “Not exactly,” said Clovis; “a hen came between them.” “A hen? What hen?”