evidently a man with some knowledge of human nature, said that the old gentleman had broken down from over-work, and ordered him abroad for six months' complete rest. I never myself met anyone who seemed to do less work than my reverend relative; but, of course, the mental strain of being a rural dean may very well be greater than I suppose. At all events my uncle went abroad and was evidently very well pleased both with himself and the doctor. I saw him when he was passing through London, and he was simply puffed up with pride and self-importance. I did not grudge him his holiday in the least, but, being a busy man in my own way, I resented the way in which he insisted on regarding himself as a martyr to duty.
He stayed away, somewhere in northern Italy, for two months longer than the doctor ordered, and it was nearly a year before I visited him in his rectory again. I found a new curate in the parish and inquired what had happened to Mr. Metcalf.
"Metcalf," said my uncle, "behaved badly."
He seemed disinclined to enter into particulars, but I was really anxious to hear about Metcalf.
"Did he," I suggested, "get mixed up with the squire and his lot when you weren't here to look after him?"
"No. Not that I heard of. When I say that he behaved badly, I mean toward me personally. He agreed, distinctly and definitely, though I did not have it in writing, to remain here and look after the
