"And to Miss Portlock and Luke Ross by allowing you to stay here." They had reached the rectory, and the Rev Eli Mallow, who had paused with one hand upon the oaken bar to finish his sentence, now pushed open the quaintly-made gate, held it for a moment as if for his son to follow; but as he did not, the Rector allowed it to close, and, placing his hands behind him, walked slowly up the well-kept gravel walk, too intent upon his thoughts to give heed to his favourite flowers, or to enter the conservatory, according to his custom, on his way to his own snug room, whose walls were well stored with works on botany and his favourite pursuit, gardening. Cyril Mallow gave his long moustache a tug as he watched his father's bent back till it disappeared amongst the choice shrubs and evergreens; then, taking out his cigar-case, he selected one from its contents, bit off the end viciously, and there was the petulance of a spoiled child in his action as he struck one of the old-fashioned flat fusees upon the rough oaken gate-post till he had torn the match to rags without obtaining a light, another and another following before he could ignite his cigar. "Confound the place!" he exclaimed. "It's as dull as ditch water. Pretty state of affairs, indeed! One can't look at a soul without being jerked up short. Luke Ross, eh? I'd like to--" He did not say what, but he gave his teeth a grind, and, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets, he walked on towards the fields beyond the little town. "I declare everybody's hard on me," he said aloud. "Just because I'm a bit unlucky and want change. Here's the governor rolling in riches, and might make me a handsome allowance, and yet I'm always to be driven out into the world. Hanged if it isn't too bad." He leaped over a stile and strolled a little way on across a field, beyond which was a patch of woodland, all aglow with the rich tints of autumn, but Cyril Mallow saw them not, his thoughts being elsewhere. "I won't stand it," he cried suddenly, as he stopped short. "A man can't always be in leading-strings, and I'm old enough now, surely, to strike for my liberty, and--" His hand went involuntarily to his vest pocket, from which he drew a delicately-made lady's gold watch, whose presence was accounted for by the fact that Cyril's own stout gold watch had passed into the hands of a station shepherd out at a place called Bidgeewoomba, in Queensland, and Cyril's indulgent mother had insisted upon his using hers until it was replaced. "Beastly dull place!" he muttered, gazing at the watch. "It's of no use to go across to the ford; `our master' will be coming in to dinner. Little fool! why did she go and marry that great oaf?" He turned the watch over and over, laughing unpleasantly. "Pretty Polly!" he said out aloud, but ended by opening and snapping to the back of the watch. "Five minutes to twelve," he exclaimed, involuntarily. "The children will be coming out of school directly."