drawn for coolness and the water-pitcher
swathed in wet rags, East Indian fashion,
she heard the familiar halloo of Waite down
the road. This greeting, which was usually
sent to her from the point where the dip-
ping road lifted itself into the first view of
the house, did not contain its usual note of
cheerfulness. Catherine, wiping her hands
on her checked apron, ran out to wave a
welcome; and Waite, his squat body looking
more distorted than ever, his huge shoulders
lurching as he walked, came fairly plung-
ing down the hill.

"It's all up with Henderson!" he cried,
as Catherine approached. "He's got the
malery, an' he says he's dyin'."

"That's no sign he's dying, because he
says so," retorted Catherine.

"He wants to see yeh," panted Waite,
mopping his big ugly head. "I think he's
got somethin' particular to say."

"How long has he been down?"

"Three days; an' yeh wouldn't know
'im."