crop, inspect her great rice bins, and argue over prices and sales; or he would listen to blood-curdling tales about nats, or house spirits, related by his hostess in animated, broken English, and with appropriate gesticulations.  Mee Lay had a high opinion of the young man, and this was shared by her daughter, for “Shaft,” as she called him, helped her to fly her kite, mended broken toys and brought her chocolates such as her soul loved.

During one of their prowling expeditions Roscoe had imparted the life-history of Salter to his chum.  Salter’s forbears were Yorkshire folk—­thrifty, self-respecting, stiff-backed Nonconformists.  His father and grandfather belonged to what is called “the old school,” when parents ruled their families with an iron rod, and the meek, down-trodden children accepted punishment without question.  Salter’s grandmother had dismissed grown-up sons from table and kept a rebellious daughter for weeks incarcerated in her room.  Salter’s father had inherited her stern, Spartan spirit; he gave his heir a first-class education in the neighbourhood of London and, when he was twenty, recalled him to Bradford, there to take his place in the works and live at home.  But Salter, junior, having tasted the delights of liberty, found home life unspeakably irksome; the laws against drink, dancing, smoking and the theatre were Draconic.  He hated the long chapel service on Sunday, the endless hymns and emotional exhortations; the day concluding with family worship, which lasted three-quarters of an hour.  The young fellow dreaded the Sabbath and rebelled against his gloomy, comfortable, middle-class home, where he had no individuality, no rights—­and no latch-key!  At last he broke loose—­the flesh and blood of twenty-two years old revolted.  At twelve o’clock one night he found himself locked out and, as the first bold peal of the bell elicited no reply, he never again applied for admittance, but with four pounds in his pockets and a good saleable watch, launched his little skiff upon the great, wide world.

Behold him now comfortably established in a foreign land, occupying a responsible position in a well-known firm, the husband of a clever, thrifty woman, who was actively engaged in building up his fortune.  After an interval of some years, the Salters at home discovered that their prodigal had undoubtedly killed and thriven on his own fatted calf.  The usual little bird had informed them that “Abel was much thought of and prosperous; had a grand home in Rangoon, dozens of servants, and was married.”  Friendly letters were dispatched—­for “Nothing succeeds like success”—­and a brisk correspondence ensued.  Information and photographs were promptly exchanged, and the family received a nicely-finished presentment of Rosetta in her smartest and shortest frock.  They were much impressed by the grandchild born to them in Burma, and she was immediately installed in a handsome silver frame, introduced to all their neighbours and to most of their chapel friends.