“‘My dear Owen,--My mind is quite made up; though I know the sort of legal long-winded things you will say against it; I know especially one thing a leathery old lawyer like you is bound to say; but as a matter of fact even you can’t say it in a case like this, because the timber came from the other end of the county and had nothing whatever to do with him or any of his flunkeys and sycophants. Besides, I did it all myself with a little assistance I’ll tell you about later; and even in these days I should be surprised to hear _that_ sort of assistance could be anything but a man’s own affair. I defy you and all your parchments to maintain that _it_ comes under the Game Laws. You won’t mind me talking like this; I know jolly well you’d think you were acting as a friend; but I think the time has come to speak plainly.’” “Quite right,” said the Colonel. “Yes,” said young Pierce, with a rather vague expression, “I’m glad he feels that the time has come to speak plainly.” “Quite so,” observed the lawyer drily; “he continues as follows: “‘I’ve got a lot to tell you about the new arrangement, which works much better even than I hoped. I was afraid at first it would really be an encumbrance, as you know it’s always supposed to be. But there are more things, and all the rest of it, and God fulfils himself, and so on and so on. It gives one quite a weird Asiatic feeling sometimes.’” “Yes,” said the Colonel, “it does.” “What does?” asked Pierce, sitting up suddenly, like one who can bear no more. “You are not used to the epistolary method,” said Hood indulgently; “you haven’t got into the swing of the style. It goes on: “‘Of course, he’s a big pot down here, and all sorts of skunks are afraid of him and pretend to boycott me. Nobody could expect anything else of those pineapple people, but I confess I was surprised at Parkinson. Sally of course is as sound as ever; but she goes to Scotland a good deal and you can’t blame her. Sometimes I’m left pretty severely alone, but I’m not downhearted; you’ll probably laugh if I tell you that Snowdrop is really a very intelligent companion.’” “I confess I am long past laughter,” said Hilary Pierce sadly; “but I rather wish I knew who Snowdrop is.” “Child, I suppose,” said the Colonel shortly. “Yes; I suppose it must be a child,” said Pierce. “Has he any children?” “No,” said the Colonel. “Bachelor.” “I believe he was in love with a lady in those parts and never married in consequence,” said Hood. “It would be quite on the lines of fiction and film-drama if Snowdrop were the daughter of the lady, when she had married Another. But there seems to be something more about Snowdrop, that little sunbeam in the house: