SO

Mr. Partridge had no superfluous adipose tissue. However, his hands were white, his brown boots so shiny, his tie so neatly arranged, that the most ardent and cynical Four Cornerites felt it to be an outrage for this beautiful being to work; but their surprise speedily changed to warm admiration when Mr. Partridge, realising the situation, heroically donned the rough garb of labour, hid his hyacinthine locks beneath an old straw hat, his small feet in elephantine boots, and kept his exquisitely fitting clothes for Sundays only. Sympathising maidens. sought to bring him balm for blisters as he sat in lonely corners of the wharf on moonlight nights, wondering whether he would ever get rid of his backache, and why cows required to be milked with such monotonous regularity. Hitherto, in his colossal ignorance of dairy matters, he had been under the impression that this delicate attention once a week amply relieved the milky mothers, and it was not until he had lost his most valuable cow that he discovered his mistake. When he realised what had happened, he promptly wrote off the dead cow as a bad debt-his elaborate system of book-keeping was a constant source of joyous wonder to the people of Four Corners and continued to milk the

milky mothers of the herd with unabated cheerfulness.

In addition to his other bucolic experiences, his first ride on a mowingmachine afflicted Mr. Partridge with something suspiciously like sea-sickness; and, altogether, he speedily began to understand what was meant by the Primal Curse, especially if it chanced that he found it necessary to get up at daybreak in order to feed "stock." As far as he could make out, the sole ambition of "stock" appeared to be that of feeding at all sorts of unreasonable hours. they were not fed, they came to the barndoor and made piteous noises, expressive of their strong disapproval of amateurs and amateurish methods. Then, of course, the conscience-stricken Partridge gave them twice as much food as was necessary, and wondered why he had ever exchanged the gas-haunted stool of a London bank for an equally uncomfortable seat on the hard stone walls of Four Corners.

If

These fits of despondency were, however, but momentary. On Sundays, disregarding the clamant appeals of "stock," Mr. Partridge shaved himself, put on his beautiful light grey suit, went to the Presbyterian Church, and listened to powerful sermons, conspicuous for their devotion to realistic descriptions of the nether world. What interested him more than the nether world, however, was the swelling music from the church harmonium, as it was called into being by the fair fingers of Miss Elena Sewell, the organist; for Miss Sewell was lovely to look upon, with eyes of forget-me-not blue which always reminded Mr. Partridge of his native speedwell. Somehow, she lightened for him the labours of the week, although he had never even spoken to her. To paraphrase the words of the poet,

Shy he was, and she thought him cold: and, in addition, there was a certain

stalwart ruffian named Dick Higginson, who hovered round the fair organist with a proprietary air which caused Mr. Partridge much internal anguish.

But as he sat in church, as near the door as possible, Mr. Partridge gradually fell in love with the fair Elena. There was an air of cheerful goodness about her, in spite of those too rarely uplifted forgetme-not eyes; and when she rose from her seat in the choir and approached the harmonium with sylphlike grace, the

harmonium never made any fuss, but started "right in" with the necessary chant or psalm. One Sunday, when she was away from church, the harmonium refused "to sing a note," as the Deacon put it, and Mr. Partridge fully appreciated the delicacy of feeling which prompted the instrument to strike work; for the schoolmistress's fingers were beefy and not like Elena's. Doubtless, argued the forlorn Mr. Partridge, the harmonium had its likes and dislikes, and probably objected to be touched by any one but Miss Sewell. Mr. Partridge sympathised with it, and thought more highly of the instrument in consequence.

One Sunday, however, in a sudden accession of boldness, he so far forgot himself as to sit close up by the harmonium. The opening prayer was a very long one, and Mr. Partridge, devoutly kneeling, found that by looking between his fingers he could catch a glimpse of Miss Sewell's shell-like ear and long-fringed lasheslashes so long that they cast little shadows on her cheeks. Thinking himself unobserved, he allowed his feelings to appear in his own sunny blue eyes. They were nearly as blue as Miss Sewell's, but not quite; and, unconsciously to himself, they prayed at her-prayed for her love, for her companionship, for her sympathy in his trials with "stock," for all the thousand-and-one reasons which draw a man irresistibly towards the destined maid.

Miss Sewell (she was also looking through her fingers at the young stranger) saw something in Mr. Partridge's innocent eyes which filled her with pity. When,

however, the service was over, she was momentarily delayed by Mr. Dick Higginson, and, on reaching the porch, saw the light grey suit "streaking down town as if there was a mad dog after it." Mr. Higginson did not gain in Miss Sewell's favour by this unfeeling remark. Further, she became almost fierce when he felt his

brawny muscles, and, declaring that life was dull in Four Corners, said that "he'd half a mind to call on Mr. Partridge and mop the floor with him, just to help pass the time."

“What has the poor little fellow done to you, you cowardly bully?" asked the indignant Miss Sewell. "Touch him, and I'll never speak to you again. I shall never be happy-not thoroughly happy-until some one breaks every bone in your clumsy body."

"I ketched him lookin' at you all meetin'," declared Mr. Higginson jealously; "and I'm just goin' to impress on him the properiety of lettin' you alone, seein' you're courtin' with me, so to speak."

He made this audacious assertion with an easy confidence, but dared not look at Miss Sewell, whose blue eyes began to glitter ominously.

"I'll trouble you to say that again," she said, haughtily.

Mr. Higginson repeated his statement at Miss Sewell's gate. As he did so, Miss Sewell signalled to the recumbent form of her sire, and "Old Man " Sewell uncoiled about six feet four of that magnificent manhood before which even Mr. Higginson had been known to quail.

"I want you to do me a favour, daddy,” said Miss Sewell, with bewitching sweetness, as she gathered her dainty skirt away from the defiling touch of a potatobug on the sidewalk. "I want you to do me a favour, there's a dear."

"Anything, 'Lena," cheerfully replied Mr. Sewell, strolling down to the gate in his shirt-sleeves, and surveying her companion with marked disapproval. "Anything, so long as it ain't to dress up and drag me into that yer meetin' of yourn. When I've settled down to a quiet old age, maybe I'll come; but I've one or two little argeyments still on hand, and I don't feel drawn towards the Mourners' Bench just yet, so to speak. I couldn't face my Maker till I'd cleared them up and dusted the floor with one or two of them Carberry fellows as 'lowed I was gittin' past my prime."

"I want you, daddy, either to 'dust the floor with this," she pointed scornfully at Mr. Higginson, "or else blow its head off with your shot-gun if it ever presumes to speak to me again."

"You don't mean it, Elena?" implored Mr. Higginson. Say it's only your fun.” Old Man Sewell brightened up at once. "Why, cert'ny, 'Lena, Seein' as it's

Sunday, p'raps I'd better blow his head off. It is more seemlier so to do,' as your hymnbook says. If we was to git scrappin' round now, the minister might hear of it and make a fuss. You wait a minit, Dick, and I'll fetch the old gun. You kin say your prayers whiles I'm loadin' of her up."

He strolled leisurely towards the house, with a careless stretch of his huge muscles. "You mean it, Elena?" again asked Mr. Higginson. "Seein' as it's Sunday, I ain't loaded up, and, anyways, I wouldn't like to draw on the Old Man."

"The Old Man' will draw on you in a minute if you're not off," said the thoroughly roused Elena. "I've been meaning for some time past to tell you how unwelcome were your attentions. But you never can take a hint unless it comes out of a shot-gun."

"You're a coward, and a bully; and I don't want to have anything more to do with you. Better go away before dad's ready for you with the shot-gun."

Mr. Sewell appeared on the porch with his old muzzle-loader and a handful of buckshot. He had a beautiful tenor voice, and hummed his favourite, "It is more seemlier so to do," as he measured out the buckshot into the palm of his hand. When he had finished his preparations, he strolled down to the gate just in time to see the flying figure of Mr. Higginson turn a corner. "Seems in a hurry," he said, with a grin.

Elena tossed her pretty head.

"Was you partiklar wishful about my drawin' on him?" asked her sire. Seems wastin' good buckshot."

"No, daddy. Only he drove every one away from the house, and now he wants to bully that little Englishman."

Mr. Sewell nodded. "A high-toned little feller-real high-toned," he said sympathetically. "Think I'll sell him that cow as is going dry. He wants more practice in milkin'. He was a stranger, and I took him in," he added parenthetically, by way of excuse.

Elena reached up to his chin on tiptoe and patted it. "Daddy, dear, be kind to him and help him—for my sake. Sell the cow to-to Dick Higginson."

"He knows too much for that," said Mr. Sewell regretfully. "What's the good. of your havin' young men round," Lena,

if I can't sell 'em things as ain't no use to me?"

He took Elena up in his arms and looked into her blue eyes. Something he saw there checked his next speech. "I don't know as that little 'un wouldn't make a change," he said, putting her gently down again. "If you're sot on him, Elena, now I have got the gun loaded I'll go down and bring him up."

Elena blushed becomingly. "Reckon if I want any one brought up, daddy, I can do all the bringing that's necessary." "That's so, Elena--that's so," said her puzzled parent. "Only sometimes a shotgun does come in sorter handy in theseyer little matters of sentiment. Guess I wouldn't stay prim, if I was you. When a girl stays prim, a young feller hitches on to some one else as ain't so dum partiklar. I'd lure him on a bit if I was you. He kinder runs away from your shadder nowadays, which shows he thinks a lot of you;" and Mr. Sewell strolled back to the house, put down his gun, and stretched his long form in a rocker.

Elena gazed after him with dewy eyes. Half a mile below, on the Ottawa bank, a thin straggling column of blue smoke rose from Mr. Partridge's lonely dwelling. From afar off she could hear the constant lowing of young cattle, remorselessly bent on taking advantage of their owner's inexperience.

"The poor little fellow!" she said, sympathetically. "The poor little fellow! Why does he run away like that? Is he afraid I want to eat him? Why, he must be killing himself with his own cookery! But he hasn't said a word to me; and he didn't think I saw him staring at me all the morning. It was very wicked of him, but he never took his eyes off me. In spite of what daddy says, I must stay prim. I can't go and tell him I ——” She ran away from herself.