On a certain evening in February, towards the end of the month, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose and Mr. Juxon came to have tea with Mrs. Goddard.  Mr. Juxon had at first not been regularly invited to these entertainments.  They were perhaps not thought worthy of his grandeur; at all events both the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Goddard had asked him very rarely.  But as time went on and Mr. Juxon’s character developed under the eyes of the little Billingsfield society, it had become apparent to every one that he was a very simple man, making no pretensions whatever to any superiority on account of his station.  They grew more and more fond of him, and ended by asking him to their small sociable evenings.  On these occasions it generally occurred that the squire and the vicar fell into conversation about classical and literary subjects while the two ladies talked of the little incidents of Billingsfield life, of Tom Judd’s wife and of Joe Staines, the choir boy, who was losing his voice, and of similar topics of interest in the very small world in which they lived.

The present evening had not been at all a remarkable one so far as the talk was concerned.  The drenching rain, the tendency of the fire to smoke, the general wetness and condensed depravity of the atmosphere had affected the spirits of the little party.  They were not gay, and they broke up early.  It was not nine o’clock when all had gone, and Mrs. Goddard and little Eleanor were left alone by the side of their drawing-room fire.  The child sat upon a footstool and leaned her head against her mother’s knee.  Mrs. Goddard herself was thoughtful and sad, without precisely knowing why.  She generally looked forward with pleasure to meeting the Ambroses, but this evening she had been rather disappointed.  The conversation had dragged, and the excellent Mrs. Ambrose had been more than usually prosy.  Nellie had complained of a headache and leaned wearily against her mother’s knee.

“Tell me a story, mamma—­won’t you?  Like the ones you used to tell me when I was quite a little girl.”

“Dear child,” said her mother, who was not thinking of story-telling, “I am afraid I have forgotten all the ones I ever knew.  Besides, darling, it is time for you to go to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed, mamma.  It is such a horrid night.  The wind keeps me awake.”

“You will not sleep at all if I tell you a story,” objected Mrs. Goddard.

“Mr. Juxon tells me such nice stories,” said Nellie, reproachfully.

“What are they about, dear?”

“Oh, his stories are beautiful.  They are always about ships and the blue sea and wonderful desert islands where he has been.  What a wonderful man he is, mamma, is not he?”

“Yes, dear, he talks very interestingly.”  Mrs. Goddard stroked Nellie’s brown curls and looked into the fire.

“He told me that once, ever so many years ago—­he must be very old, mamma—­” Nellie paused and looked up inquiringly.