There was one duty, however, which Edith in her zeal had lately imposed upon herself. Or it may have been imposed upon her by that section of the English press from which she took her opinions. For the past three Saturday mornings it had been carried out religiously. Known as “rounding up the shirkers,” it consisted in making a tour of the neighboring villages on a bicycle, and in presenting a white feather to male members of the population of military age who were not in khaki. The girl had just returned from the fulfillment of the weekly task. She was in a state of excitement slightly tinged with hysteria, and that alone was her excuse for entering that room at such a time. At first the vicar was more concerned by her actual presence than for the state of her feelings. “Well, what is it?” he demanded impatiently, without looking up from his sermon. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, father”--the high-pitched voice had a curious quiver in it--“but something _rather_ disagreeable has happened. I felt that I must come and tell you.” The vicar swung slowly round in his chair. He was an obtuse man, therefore the girl’s excitement was still lost upon him, but he had a fixed habit of duty. If the matter was really disagreeable he was prepared to deal with it at once; if it admitted of qualification it must wait until after luncheon. There was no doubt, however, in Edith’s mind that it called for her father’s immediate attention. Moreover, the fact was at last made clear to him by a mounting color, and an air of growing agitation. “Well, what’s the matter?” A certain rough kindness came into the vicar’s tone as soon as these facts were borne in upon him. “I hope you’ve not been overtaxing yourself. Joliffe said you would have to be very careful for some time.” The attempt of a somewhat emotional voice to reassure him on that point was not altogether a success. “Then what is the matter?” The vicar peered at her solemnly over his spectacles. Edith hesitated. The vicar mobilized an impatient eyebrow. “It’s--it’s only that wretched man, John Smith.” Mr. Perry-Hennington gave a little start of annoyance at the mention of the name. “He’s quite upset me.” “What’s he been doing now?” The vicar’s tone was an odd mingling of scorn and curiosity. “It’s foolish to let a man of that kind upset one,” said Edith rather evasively. “I agree. But tell me----?” “It will only annoy you.” Filial regard and outraged feelings had begun a pitched battle. “It’s merely weak to be worried by that kind of creature.” “My dear girl”--the tone was very stern--“tell me in just two words what has happened.” And the vicar laid down his pen and sat back in his chair. “I have been insulted.” Edith made heroic fight but the sense of outrage was too much for her. “How? In what way?” The county magistrate had begun to take a hand in the proceedings.