“Mr. Morven has let me in for singing in the choir; you should see me in a surplice--it barely comes to my knees, and makes me feel so shy! Thanks to the choir, I’ve got to know the organist, and the schoolmaster--a very decent chap; I go and smoke a pipe there of an evening, and also a young farmer who has promised me some fishing when I can get off--that’s not often. There is no village club, as you may remember, and the men of the place assemble at the Drum Inn. I drop in there sometimes, though, just as often, I take a tramp over the country, accompanied by the Manor dog, who has adopted me, and often does ‘a night out.’ Mrs. Hogben leaves the door on the latch. She also told me I should go to the Drum along with Tom, as she thought I was a bit dull; so to the Drum I go, to show I’m not above my mates, and I have a glass of beer and a pipe, and hear all the village news, and the village elders discussing parish rates, socialism, free trade, the price of stock, and how Jakes’ Bob is going into the grocery, and Harry Tews’ spring cabbage has failed! “There is one queer figure there: a broken-down, decrepit officer, Captain Ramsay, whose wife lives in the village and keeps a dogs’ hotel. He looks as if he drank, and is always muddled, or else he is mad. He speaks to no one, but he never takes his eye off _me_. I tell you, Sis, I don’t half like it--though I swear he has never seen me before. “Well, I hope Martin is better. I’m sorry he has been feeling a bit cheap; it’s a pity I can’t send him some of this air--splendid; there’s an old chap of ninety-three in the place--still going strong. “Your papers are a godsend. I pass them on to the schoolmaster, and he lends me books; but although I seem to do little, I never have much time for reading. I’m getting on all right, and intend to stick to the old birds, the green car, and Ottinge; though, as it said in the Psalms this morning, it does seem to be a ‘land where all things are forgotten.’ At any rate our ways are primitive and virtuous--we have one policeman, he sings bass in the choir,--and we hold little conversation with the outer world. Indeed, news--other than local--is despised. The sweep is our postman, and the village softy limps round with the papers when he thinks of it. I’m about to be enrolled in the Ottinge Cricket Club, and I’m looking forward to some sport. They little guess that I played in the Eton eleven! Here endeth this epistle, which must count as a dozen and thirteen.--Your affectionate brother, “O. St. J. W.” Lady Kesters read this letter quickly, then she went over it very deliberately; finally she handed it to her husband.