"Yes. He tried to murder a man--a man who had swindled him. Mumples says he did it all in a passion; but it seems to have been a cold sort of passion, because he waited twelve hours for him before he knifed him. And at the trial he couldn't even prove the swindling, so he got it pretty hot." "Is he dead?" "No, he's alive. He's to get out in about three years. Mumples is waiting for him." "Poor old woman! Does she go and see him?" "She used to. She hasn't for years now. I believe he won't have her--I don't know why. The governor was high sheriff's chaplain at the time, so he got to know Mumples, and took her on. She's been with us ever since, and she can stay as long as she likes." "What things one comes across!" sighed Tom Courtland. Grantley had looked grave for a moment, but he smiled again as he said: "After all, though, you've not told me how to manage Sibylla. I'm not Mumples--I can't thump her. I should be better than Mumples in one way, though. If I did, I should be dead sure to stick to it that I was right." "You'd stick to it even if you didn't think so," observed Courtland. For a moment the remark seemed to vex Grantley, and to sober him. He spent a few seconds evidently reflecting on it. "Well, I hope not," he said at last. "But at any rate I should think so generally." "Then you could mostly make her think so. But if it wasn't true, you might feel a brute." "So I might, Jeremy." "And it mightn't be permanently safe. She sees things uncommonly sharp sometimes. Well, I must be off." "Going back to Haeckel?" Jeremy nodded gravely. He was not susceptible to ridicule on the subject of his theories. The two watched him stride away towards Old Mill House with decisive vigorous steps. "Rum product for a country parsonage, Grantley." "Oh, he's not a product; he's only an embryo. But I think he's a promising one, and he's richly amusing." "Yes, and I wonder how you're going to manage Miss Sibylla!" Grantley laughed easily. "My poor old chap, you can't be expected to take a cheerful view. Poor old Tom! God bless you, old chap! Let's go home to tea." As they walked by the parsonage a bicycle came whizzing through the open garden-gate. It was propelled by a girl of fifteen or thereabouts--a slim long-legged child, almost gaunt in her immaturity, and lamentably grown out of her frock. She cried shrill greeting to Grantley, and went off down the street, displaying her skill to whosoever would look by riding with her arms akimbo. "Another local celebrity," said Grantley. "Dora Hutting, the new parson's daughter. That she should have come to live in the village is a gross personal affront to Jeremy Chiddingfold. He's especially incensed by her lengthy stretch of black stockings, always, as he maintains, with a hole in them." Courtland laughed inattentively. "I hope Harriet'll get that wire in good time," he said.