A NIGHT OF STORM That afternoon the whole Vicarage party walked up to the farm to inspect another litter of young pigs.

It struck Geoffrey, remembering former editions, that the reproductive powers of Mr.Granger's old sow were something little short of marvellous, and he dreamily worked out a calculation of how long it would take her and her progeny to produce a pig to every square yard of the area of plucky little Wales.

It seemed that the thing could be done in six years, which was absurd, so he gave up calculating.
He had no words alone with Beatrice that afternoon.

Indeed, a certain coldness seemed to have sprung up between them.

With the almost supernatural quickness of a loving woman's intuition, she had divined that something was passing in his mind, inimical to her most vital interests, so she shunned his company, and received his conventional advances with a politeness which was as cold as it was crushing.