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had never been heard to utter a sentence of more than
six words. His usual reply, when asked about the
health of one of the horses, was either, "Well enough"
or "Not over-bright". Stephen now reminded him
(quite unnecessarily, and probably not for the first
time) that two of the horses would be going out
hunting on Monday. Abel grunted, "Got 'em both
shod this afternoon," and disappeared round the
corner of the shrubbery with the buggy.

There was only one thing against him, said Stephen,
and that was that he hadn't a ghost of an idea how to
trim their tails, which were always an absolute dis-
grace. "I've told him again and again to pull the
hair out," he remarked, "but he goes on just the
same, cutting them with scissors, and the result is that
they come out at the opening meet with tails like

From this it may be inferred that there were many
things in the Rectory stable which fell short of
Stephen's ideal. He and his brothers were always
trying to bring "the old guv'nor" into line with what
they believed to be the Melton Mowbray standard of
smartness. There was also the question of persuading
him to buy a motor car. But Parson Golwood was a
Sussex man by birth and he valued his native pro-
vincialism more than the distant splendours of the
Shires toward which his offspring turned their un-
sophisticated eyes. The Rectory, as I knew it then,
had the charm of something untouched by modernity.

The Rev* Harry Golwood, as I remember him, was
a composite portrait of Charles Kingsley and Matthew
Arnold. This fanciful resemblance has no connection
with literature, toward which Mr. Colwood's dis-
position was respectful but tepid. My mental semi-
association of him with Arnold is probably due to the