nor of Whistle was any trace now discoverable; but over the porch one read clearly enough the landlord’s name:  William Fouracres.  Only three years ago had Mr. Fouracres established himself here; Ruddiman remembered his predecessor, with whom he had often chatted whilst drinking his modest bottle of ginger beer.  The present landlord was a very different sort of man, less affable, not disposed to show himself to every comer.  Customers were generally served by the landlord’s daughter, and with her Mr. Ruddiman had come to be on very pleasant terms.

But as this remark may easily convey a false impression, it must be added that Miss Fouracres was a very discreet, well-spoken, deliberate person, of at least two-and-thirty.  Mr. Ruddiman had known her for more than a year before anything save brief civilities passed between them.  In the second twelvemonth of their acquaintance they reached the point of exchanging reminiscences as to the weather, discussing the agricultural prospects of the county, and remarking on the advantage to rural innkeepers of the fashion of bicycling.  In the third year they were quite intimate; so intimate, indeed, that when Mr. Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke of his remarkable history.  For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the landlord’s own lips.  Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by taking the same view of the matter.

Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of refreshing himself at the familiar little inn.  He entered by the ivied porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar sewing.  Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and coolness.  She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no disagreeable impression.  At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the discreetest of modest welcomes.

‘Good day, Miss Fouracres,’ said the under-master, after his usual little cough.

‘Good day, sir,’ was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar note of honesty.  Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance’s name.

‘Splendid weather for the crops.  I’ll take a ginger-beer, if you please.’

‘Indeed, that it is, sir.  Ginger-beer; yes, sir.’

Then followed two or three minutes of silence.  Miss Fouracres had resumed her sewing, though not her seat.  Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more gravely than usual.

‘How is Mr. Fouracres?’ he asked at length.

‘I’m sorry to say, sir,’ was the subdued reply, ’that he’s thinking about the Prince.’