“Only six times,” pleaded Smilash, his features working convulsively. “Don’t bear too hard on a common man. Only six times, and all through drink. But I have took the pledge, and kep’ it faithful for eighteen months past.” Miss Wilson now set down the man as one of those keen, half-witted country fellows, contemptuously styled originals, who unintentionally make themselves popular by flattering the sense of sanity in those whose faculties are better adapted to circumstances. “You have a bad memory, Mr. Smilash,” she said good-humoredly. “You never give the same account of yourself twice.” “I am well aware that I do not express myself with exactability. Ladies and gentlemen have that power over words that they can always say what they mean, but a common man like me can’t. Words don’t come natural to him. He has more thoughts than words, and what words he has don’t fit his thoughts. Might I take a turn with the roller, and make myself useful about the place until nightfall, for ninepence?” Miss Wilson, who was expecting more than her usual Saturday visitors, considered the proposition and assented. “And remember,” she said, “that as you are a stranger here, your character in Lyvern depends upon the use you make of this opportunity.” “I am grateful to your noble ladyship. May your ladyship’s goodness sew up the hole which is in the pocket where I carry my character, and which has caused me to lose it so frequent. It’s a bad place for men to keep their characters in; but such is the fashion. And so hurray for the glorious nineteenth century!” He took off his coat, seized the roller, and began to pull it with an energy foreign to the measured millhorse manner of the accustomed laborer. Miss Wilson looked doubtfully at him, but, being in haste, went indoors without further comment. The girls mistrusting his eccentricity, kept aloof. Agatha determined to have another and better look at him. Racket in hand, she walked slowly across the grass and came close to him just as he, unaware of her approach, uttered a groan of exhaustion and sat down to rest. “Tired already, Mr. Smilash?” she said mockingly. He looked up deliberately, took off one of his washleather gloves, fanned himself with it, displaying a white and fine hand, and at last replied, in the tone and with the accent of a gentleman: “Very.” Agatha recoiled. He fanned himself without the least concern. “You--you are not a laborer,” she said at last. “Obviously not.” “I thought not.” He nodded. “Suppose I tell on you,” she said, growing bolder as she recollected that she was not alone with him. “If you do I shall get out of it just as I got out of the half-crowns, and Miss Wilson will begin to think that you are mad.” “Then I really did not give you the seven and sixpence,” she said, relieved. “What is your own opinion?” he answered, taking three pennies from his pocket, jingling them in his palm. “What is your name?” “I shall not tell you,” said Agatha with dignity.