“The indifference shall be reciprocal,” he said. “It shall be none to me. Indeed I could no longer think of insulting your psychology by any suggestion of payment.” “Very well,” said Gilead. “I have no wish to tax your conscience in a fresh matter. What its sensitiveness decrees is sure to be right.” He spoke with fathomless irony; but, at the word conscience, the stranger seized his bill-hook and set to chopping again with a violence that was simply destructive. “‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt!’” he gasped presently, pausing in a state of semi-collapse. He groaned, wrung his brow, and squatting, sunk upon himself like an unbaked cottage loaf, heaved a dismal sigh and looked up. “Since we are established on these very intimate and confidential terms,” he said, “tell me frankly, how does my size strike you?” “All of a heap,” said Gilead shortly. The other moaned. “But less of a heap than when you first entered--O, yes! be candid and admit it.” “Why, surely,” began Gilead, with some indignation, “you are not expecting--” “When one is excruciatingly conscious of his every ounce avoirdupois,” interrupted Mr Wyllie miserably, “he knows, if it is no more than a button that has burst off his waistcoat. Something, however insignificant, has gone. The question is, how long will it take to run off the whole?” “More than a week,” said Gilead. “You’ll have to hire another yard--several yards; or else adopt other means.” “It is strange,” said Mr Wyllie, almost weeping, “that the canker of a corroding conscience should, instead of devouring, blow some men out!” “It’s the case with the oak-gall,” said Gilead. “Irony is absurd in commenting on the ways of Nature.” The stranger glanced at him rather balefully, and resumed his chopping but languidly. “I don’t know, after all, that you’ll suit me,” he said. “Never mind about that at present,” said Gilead. “The business of the honorarium being waived, this becomes a mere friendly accommodation.” “But it’s just the friendliness I question,” answered the stranger, aggrieved. He laboured for a little in a sullen silence, while Gilead, totally forgetful of his own inactivity, watched him, pursuing his thoughts the while. “Brixton,” he said abstractedly, “is not Norwood; but it neighbours on it.” “I perceive,” snapped the other, “that you are quite a traveller.” Gilead hardly heard him. He was speculating as to how he could most tellingly introduce the subject of his mission. “There are butterflies,” he said suddenly and firmly, “in the Zermatt Valley.” “There are also, I believe,” said Mr Wyllie, “owls in Athens and coals at Newcastle.” He paused in his labour, and glooming round, in a dismally sarcastic spirit, encountered the eyes of the young man fixed keenly on him. “Well, sir,” he said; “what then?” “If wood-chopping failed to reduce your fat,” said Gilead distinctly, “you might try butterfly hunting.” “O! might I?” “And mountain-climbing.” “Indeed?”