Ordinarily the man is not home until October, but unfortunately the dog's health broke down in the latter part of August, and Roger came home to save the cost of lodgings, and to get drink on credit. For, almost alone among the villagers, this man gets drunk day by day with marked consistency; and if he is irritating when sober he is nothing less than contemptible when intoxicated. He then becomes more suave than ever, and his mouth curves into a smile which reaches his ears, but he is more stupid and obstinate than the proverbial mule. And the worst of it is he drinks at home, for the nearest inn is above a mile away, so his unhappy wife has a rough time of it. Yet he is not actively unkind to her; he does not beat her body--he merely starves and wounds her soul. She is a thin, wasted woman, about thirty years old, I suppose, of more than average intelligence, and one of the best needlewomen I have ever seen. She does beautiful work for which she is wretchedly paid, but it serves to keep the home together. I cannot help thinking that she is suffering from some serious disease, but she herself refuses to harbour any such thought. I am very much interested in her and little Lucy, and during the summer have paid them many a visit and been cheered by the little girl's delightful prattle. They live in a very poor house, and a most peculiar one. It is two-storeyed, but unusually narrow, and the only window in the upper room is a fixture in the roof. It really is remarkable that in a place like Windyridge so many of the windows cannot be opened, either because they were so constructed at first, or because their owners have painted and varnished them until they are glued fast. The stones in the walls are loose in many places and the stone slabs on the roof lie about at various angles, and seem to invite the thin, tall chimney-stack--and why it should be so tall I have never been able to surmise--to fall down and send them flying. It is a mean, rickety house, not worth the cost of repair. Inside, however, it is as clean and comfortable as any other in the village. The floor is spotless, the deal tables are white as soap and water can make them, the steel fender and fire-irons shine like mirrors, and the short curtains at the window might always have come straight from the laundry. I did not know Roger had come home when I raised the latch and entered the house, after the usual perfunctory knock, the other day, and I apologised for my unceremonious entrance with some confusion. Roger waved his hand loftily. "Quite all right, ma'am; quite all right. Miss Terry, oblige me by getting the lady a chair." The dog rose to its feet and with its nose and forepaws pushed a chair from the wall in the direction of the fireplace. "Thank you, Miss Terry," remarked the man, "I am much obliged to you. Pray be seated, ma'am." I was interested, in spite of myself. "Yours is a very remarkable dog, Mr. Treffit," I said.