in a quiet way to discourage it, as was observed in regard to the Grey Ladies. Altogether John Bent did not favour the Master of Greylands. On one of the days of this selfsame month of February, when the air was keen and frosty and the sea sparkled under the afternoon sunshine, John Bent and his wife sat in the room they mostly occupied, which was called the best kitchen. Called so in familiar parlance only, however, for it was really used as the sitting-room of the landlord and his wife, and not for cooking. The room was on the side of the house, its large, low, three-framed window and its door facing the beach. Outside this window was another of those hospitable benches, for customers to sit down on to drink their ale when it pleased them. Mrs. Bent herself liked to sit there when work was over, and criticise the doings of the village. Whatever might be the weather, this door, like the front one, stood open; and well-known guests, or neighbours stepping in for a gossip, would enter by it. But no customer attempted to call for pipe or drink in the room, unless specially permitted. Mrs. Bent stood at the table before the window, picking shrimps for potting. She was slim and active, with dark curls on either side of her thin and comely face. Her cap had cherry-coloured ribbons in it, her favourite colour, and flying strings; her cotton gown, of a chintz pattern, was drawn through its pocket-hole, displaying a dark stuff petticoat, and neat shoes and stockings. John Bent sat at the blazing fire, as near to it as he could get his wooden chair in, reading the "Stilborough Herald." "It's uncommon cold to-day!" he broke out presently, giving a twist to his back. "The wind comes in and cuts one like a knife. Don't you think, Dorothy, we might shut that door a bit these sharp days?" "No, I don't," said Mrs. Bent. "You'll get rheumatism yet before the winter's over, as sure as you're a living woman. Or I shall." "Shall I?" retorted Mrs. Bent, in her sharply decisive tones. "Over forty years of age I am now, and I've been here nigh upon twenty, and never had a touch of it yet. I am not going to begin to shut up doors and windows, John Bent, to please you or anybody else." Thus put down, John resigned himself to his paper again. He was a spare, middle-sized man, some few years older than his wife, with a red healthy face and scanty grey hair. Presently he laid the newspaper aside, and sat watching his wife's nimble fingers. "Dorothy, woman, when those shrimps are done, you might send a pot of 'em over to poor Sister Mildred. She's uncommon weak, they say." The very idea that had been running through Mrs. Bent's own mind. But she did not receive the suggestion courteously. "Suppose you attend to your own concerns, John. If I am to supply the parish with shrimps gratis, it's about time I left off potting."