In a moment or two he broke off suddenly, and a honey-bee shot out of an anemone-bell like a shell from a mortar.  For a new sound disconcerted them—­a sound sharp and piercing.  The Registrar had finished his whistle and was blowing like mad, moving his fingers up and down.  Having proved his instrument, he dived a hand into his tail-pocket and drew out a roll, tied around with ribbon.  It was the folded leather-bound volume in which he kept his blank certificates.  And spreading it on his knees, he took his whistle again and blew, reading his music from the blank pages, and piping a strain he had never dreamed of.  For he whistled of Births and Marriages.

O, happy Registrar!  O, happy, happy Registrar!  You will never get into those elastic-sides again.  Your feet swell as they tap the swelling earth, and at each tap the flowers push, the sap climbs, the speck of life moves in the hedge-sparrow’s egg; while, far away on the downs, with each tap, the yellow van takes bride and groom a foot nearer felicity.  It is hard work in worsted socks, for you smite with the vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a hoof of horn.

* * * * *

The Registrar’s mother lived in the fishing-village, two miles down the coombe.  Her cottage leant back against the cliff so closely, that the boys, as they followed the path above, could toss tabs of turf down her chimney:  and this was her chief annoyance.

Now, it was close on the dinner-hour, and she stood in her kitchen beside a pot of stew that simmered over the wreck-wood fire.

Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass came bouncing down the chimney, striking from side to side, and soused into the pot, scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone and splashing her from head to foot.

Quick as thought, she caught up a besom and rushed out around the corner of the cottage.

“You stinking young adders!” she began.

A big man stood on the slope above her.

“Mother, cuff my head, that’s a dear.  I couldn’ help doin’ it.”

It was the elderly Registrar.  His hat, collar, tie, and waistcoat were awry; his boots were slung on the walking-stick over his shoulder; stuck in his mouth and lit was a twist of root-fibre, such as country boys use for lack of cigars, and he himself had used, forty years before.

The old woman turned to an ash-colour, leant on her besom, and gasped.

“William Henry!”

“I’m not drunk, mother:  been a Band of Hope these dozen years.”  He stepped down the slope to her and bent his head low.  “Box my ears, mother, quick!  You used to have a wonderful gift o’ cuffin’.”

“William Henry, I’m bound to do it or die.”

“Then be quick about it.”

Half-laughing, half-sobbing, she caught him a feeble cuff, and next instant held him close to her old breast.  The Registrar disengaged himself after a minute, brushed his eyes, straightened his hat, picked up the besom, and offered her his arm.  They passed into the cottage together.