'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than ever he had been before. 'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was sent to t' Indies. 'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when news came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died suddenly in her retreat or convent. 'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief mourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white dresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside, an' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward an' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes. 'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. "Mesdames," says he, "I was her unworthy husband," and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave. ''Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day. 'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin' with t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season. '"Here's to fox-huntin'!" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, "And here's to a saint in heaven!" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin' on his cheek. 'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had completed it: "And she was right, by G----!" cries t' Squire at the end of it, "as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven." 'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'. 'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken. 'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for certain.' AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE