"I am glad to hear it. There is no worthier man in all the parish than John Annersley. I hope nothing will ever occur to grieve or sadden that good old man." "I hope not, my lord," returns she, steadily, although his voice has meaning in it. In another moment she is gone. "How does your farming go on, Dorian?" asks Lord Sartoris, presently, rousing himself from a puzzling revery. "Quite in the model line," says Dorian, cheerful. "That Sawyer is an invaluable fellow. Does all the work, you know,--which is most satisfactory. Looks after the men, pays their wages, and takes all trouble off my shoulders. Never could understand what a perfect treasure is till I got him. Every one says I am most fortunate in my choice of a steward." "I dare say. It is amazing the amount of information people possess about other people's servants. But you look after things yourself, of course? However faithful and trustworthy one's hirelings may be, one's own eyes should also be in the matter." "Oh, of course," acquiesces Dorian, still cheerfully. "Nothing like personal supervision, and so on. Every now and then, you know, I do look over the accounts, and ask a few questions, and show myself very learned in drainages, and so forth. But I don't see that I gain much by it. Horrid stupid work, too,"--with a yawn. "Luckily, Sawyer is one of the most knowing fellows in the world, or I suppose I should go to smash. He is up to everything, and talks like a book. Quite a pleasure, I give you my word,--almost a privilege,--to hear him converse on short-horns and some eccentric root they call mangels." "It is possible to be too knowing," says his uncle, depreciatingly. "Eh? oh, no; Sawyer is not that sort of person. He is quite straight all through. And he never worries me more than he can help. He looks after everything, and whatever he touches (metaphorically speaking) turns to gold. I'm sure anything like those pheasants----" "Yes, yes, I dare say. But pheasants are not everything." "Well, no; there are a few other things," says Dorian, amicably,--"notably, grouse. Why this undying hatred to Sawyer, my dear Arthur? In what has he been found wanting?" "I think him a low, under-hand, sneaking sort of fellow," says Sartoris, unhesitatingly. "I should not keep him in my employ half an hour. However," relentingly, and somewhat sadly, "one cannot always judge by appearances." They have reached the village by this time, and are walking leisurely through it. Almost as they reach the hotel that adorns the centre of the main street, they meet Mr. Redmond, the rector, looking as hearty and kindly as usual. Lord Sartoris, who has come down on purpose to meet him, having asked his question and received his answer, turns again and walks slowly homeward, Dorian still beside him.