of an admirable constitution and of much native cheerfulness.  Only at such an establishment as Longmeadows—­an old-fashioned commercial ‘academy,’ recommended to parents by the healthiness of its rural situation—­could he have hoped to hold his ground against modern educational tendencies, which aim at obliterating Mr. Ruddiman and all his kind.  Every one liked him; impossible not to like a man so abounding in kindliness and good humour; but his knowledge was anything but extensive, and his methods in instruction had a fine flavour of antiquity.  Now and then Mr. Ruddiman asked himself what was to become of him when sickness or old age forbade his earning even the modest income upon which he could at present count, but his happy temper dismissed the troublesome reflection.  One thing, however, he had decided; in future he would find some more economical way of spending his holidays.  Hitherto he had been guilty of the extravagance of taking long journeys to see members of his scattered family, or of going to the seaside, or of amusing himself (oh, how innocently!) in London.  This kind of thing must really stop.  In the coming summer vacation he had determined to save at least five sovereigns, and he fancied he had discovered a simple way of doing it.

On pleasant afternoons, when he was ‘off duty,’ Mr. Ruddiman liked to have a long ramble by himself about the fields and lanes.  In solitude he was never dull; had you met him during one of these afternoon walks, more likely than not you would have seen a gentle smile on his visage as he walked with head bent.  Not that his thoughts were definitely of agreeable things; consciously he thought perhaps of nothing at all; but he liked the sunshine and country quiet, and the sense of momentary independence.  Every one would have known him for what he was.  His dress, his gait, his countenance, declared the under-master.  Mr. Ruddiman never carried a walking-stick; that would have seemed to him to be arrogating a social position to which he had no claim.  Generally he held his hands together behind him; if not so, one of them would dip its fingers into a waistcoat pocket and the other grasp the lapel of his coat.  If anything he looked rather less than his age, a result, perhaps, of having always lived with the young.  His features were agreeably insignificant; his body, though slight of build, had something of athletic outline, due to long practice at cricket, football, and hockey.

If he had rather more time than usual at his disposal he walked as far as the Pig and Whistle, a picturesque little wayside inn, which stood alone, at more than a mile from the nearest village.  To reach the Pig and Whistle one climbed a long, slow ascent, and in warm weather few pedestrians, or, for the matter of that, folks driving or riding, could resist the suggestion of the ivy-shadowed porch which admitted to the quaint parlour.  So long was it since the swinging sign had been painted that neither of Pig