went round and round for her, and never stopped or had any difference in it. From year to year the routine was the same. Now, whether this scene, or the parlour at the Seven Thorns, where the sages of the village opened their mouths every five minutes or so to emit a remark or a mouthful of smoke, or to take in a draught of beer, was the most--or rather the least--enlivening, it would be hard to say. The sages of the village are sometimes dull and sometimes wise in a book. They were full of humour and character in George Eliot’s representation of them, and they are very quaint in Mr. Hardy’s. But I doubt much if they ever say such fine things in reality, and I am sure, if they did, that Gervase Piercey was not capable of understanding them. The beer and the tobacco and the sense of freedom and of pleasing himself--also of being entirely above his company, and vaguely respected by them--made up the charms of the humbler place to Gervase. And Patty--Patty had got by degrees to be the soul of all; but even before Patty’s reign began he had escaped with delight from these home evenings to the Seven Thorns. Why? For Sir Giles, even in his enfeebled state, was better company than old Hewitt and his cronies; and Lady Piercey’s sharp monologue on things in general was more piquant than anything the old labourers found to say; and Mrs. Osborne was a great deal handsomer than Patty, and would willingly have exerted herself for the amusement of her cousin. But this is a problem to which there is no answer. Far better and cleverer young men than Gervase make this same choice every day, or rather every evening; and no one can tell why. But Gervase had turned over a new leaf. He went out to the door and took a few whiffs of his pipe, turning his back to the road which led to the Seven Thorns, that the temptation might not be too much for him, and repeating dully to himself what Patty had said to him. And then he went into the library, where they were all assembled, and pushed Dunning away, who was just arranging the board for Sir Giles’ game. “Here! look out; I’m going to play with you, father,” Gervase said. The old gentleman had been delighted the first night, pleased more or less the second, fretful the third. “You don’t understand my play, Gervase,” he said. “Oh! yes, I understand your play, father: Dunning lets you win, and that’s why you like Dunning to play with you; but I’m better, for I wake you up, and you’ve got to fight for it when it’s me.” “Dunning does nothing of the sort,” cried Sir Giles, angrily, “Dunning plays a great deal better than you, you booby. Do you let me win, Dunning? It’s all he knows!” “I ought to be good, Sir Giles, playin’ with a fine player like you; but I never come up to you, and never will, for I haven’t the eddication you have, Sir Giles, which stands to reason, as I’m only a servant,” Dunning said.