Fouracres chanced to be absent they spoke
of his remarkable history. For the landlord of the Pig and Whistle had a
history worth talking about, and Mr. Ruddiman had learnt it from the
landlord's own lips. Miss Fouracres would never have touched upon the
subject with any one in whom she did not feel confidence; to her it was far
from agreeable, and Mr. Ruddiman established himself in her esteem by
taking the same view of the matter.
Well, one July afternoon, when the summer vacation drew near, the
under-master perspired up the sunny road with another object than that of
refreshing himself at the familiar little inn. He entered by the ivied
porch, and within, as usual, found Miss Fouracres, who sat behind the bar
sewing. Miss Fouracres wore a long white apron, which protected her dress
from neck to feet, and gave her an appearance of great neatness and
coolness. She had a fresh complexion, and features which made no
disagreeable impression. At sight of the visitor she rose, and, as her
habit was, stood with one hand touching her chin, whilst she smiled the
discreetest of modest welcomes.
'Good day, Miss Fouracres,' said the under-master, after his usual little
cough.
'Good day, sir,' was the reply, in a country voice which had a peculiar
note of honesty.
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