The Money Moon. Jeffery Farnol

smiling, you know; but Old Adam says that if he'd been born a woman he'd marry a man all teeth, or no teeth at all, if he had as much money as Mr. Cassilis."

      The sun was low in the West as, skirting a wood, they came out upon a grassy lane that presently led them into the great, broad highway.

      Now, as they trudged along together, Small Porges with one hand clasped in Bellew's, and the other supporting the bundle on his shoulder, there appeared, galloping towards them a man on a fine black horse, at sight of whom, Porges' clasp tightened, and he drew nearer to Bellew's side.

      When he was nearly abreast of them, the horse-man checked his career so suddenly that his animal was thrown back on his haunches.

      "Why—Georgy!" he exclaimed.

      "Good evening, Mr. Cassilis!" said Small Porges, lifting his cap.

      Mr. Cassilis was tall, handsome, well built, and very particular as to dress. Bellew noticed that his teeth were, indeed, very large and white, beneath the small, carefully trained moustache; also his eyes seemed just a trifle too close together, perhaps.

      "Why—what in the world have you been up to, boy?" he enquired, regarding Bellew with no very friendly eye. "Your Aunt is worrying herself ill on your account—what have you been doing with yourself all day?"

      Again Bellew felt the small fingers tighten round his, and the small figure shrink a little closer to him, as Small Porges answered,

      "I've been with Uncle Porges, Mr. Cassilis."

      "With whom?" demanded Mr. Cassilis, more sharply.

      "With his Uncle Porges, sir," Bellew rejoined, "a trustworthy person, and very much at your service."

      Mr. Cassilis stared, his hand began to stroke and caress his small, black moustache, and he viewed Bellew from his dusty boots up to the crown of his dusty hat, and down again, with supercilious eyes.

      "Uncle?" he repeated incredulously.

      "Porges," nodded Bellew.

      "I wasn't aware," began Mr. Cassilis, "that—er—George was so very fortunate—"

      "Baptismal name—George," continued Bellew, "lately of New York,

       Newport, and—er—other places in America, U.S.A., at present of

       Nowhere-in-Particular."

      "Ah!" said Mr. Cassilis, his eyes seeming to grow a trifle nearer together, "an American Uncle? Still, I was not aware of even that relationship."

      "It is a singularly pleasing thought," smiled Bellew, "to know that we may learn something every day—that one never knows what the day may bring forth; to-morrow, for instance, you also may find yourself a nephew—somewhere or other, though, personally, I—er doubt it, yes, I greatly doubt it; still, one never knows, you know, and while there's life, there's hope. A very good afternoon to you, sir. Come, nephew mine, the evening falls apace, and I grow aweary—let us on—Excelsior!"

      Mr. Cassilis's cheek grew suddenly red, he twirled his moustache angrily, and seemed about to speak, then he smiled instead, and turning his horse, spurred him savagely, and galloped back down the road in a cloud of dust.

      "Did you see his teeth, Uncle Porges?"

      "I did."

      "He only smiles like that when he's awful' angry," said Small Porges shaking his head as the galloping hoof-strokes died away in the distance, "An' what do you s'pose he went back for?"

      "Well, Porges, it's in my mind that he has gone back to warn our Auntie

       Anthea of our coming."

      Small Porges sighed, and his feet dragged in the dust.

      "Tired, my Porges?"

      "Just a bit, you know—but it isn't that. I was thinking that the day has almost gone, an' I haven't found a bit of the fortune yet."

      "Why there's always to-morrow to live for, my Porges."

      "Yes, 'course—there's always to-morrow; an' then—I did find you, you know, Uncle Porges."

      "To be sure you did, and an uncle is better than nothing at all, isn't he—even if he is rather dusty and disreputable of exterior. One doesn't find an uncle every day of one's life, my Porges, no sir!"

      "An' you are so nice an' big, you know!" said Porges, viewing Bellew with a bright, approving eye.

      "Long, would be a better word, perhaps," suggested Bellew, smiling down at him.

      "An' wide, too!" nodded Small Porges. And, from these two facts he seemed to derive a deal of solid comfort, and satisfaction for he strode on manfully once more.

      Leaving the high-road, he guided Bellew by divers winding paths, through corn-fields, and over stiles, until, at length, they were come to an orchard. Such an orchard as surely may only be found in Kent—where great apple-trees, gnarled, and knotted, shot out huge branches that seemed to twist, and writhe; where were stately pear trees; where peaches, and apricots, ripened against time-worn walls whose red bricks still glowed rosily for all their years; where the air was sweet with the scent of fruit, and fragrant with thyme, and sage, and marjoram; and where the black-birds, bold marauders that they are, piped gloriously all day long. In the midst of this orchard they stopped, and Small Porges rested one hand against the rugged bole of a great, old apple tree.

      "This," said he, "is my very own tree, because he's so very big, an' so very, very old—Adam says he's the oldest tree in the orchard. I call him 'King Arthur' 'cause he is so big, an' strong—just like a king should be, you know—an' all the other trees are his Knights of the Round Table."

      But Bellew was not looking at "King Arthur" just then; his eyes were turned to where one came towards them through the green—one surely as tall, and gracious, as proud and beautiful, as Enid, or Guinevere, or any of those lovely ladies, for all her simple gown of blue, and the sunbonnet that shaded the beauty of her face. Yes, as he gazed, Bellew was sure and certain that she who, all unconscious of their presence, came slowly towards them with the red glow of the sunset about her, was handsomer, lovelier, statelier, and altogether more desirable than all the beautiful ladies of King Arthur's court—or any other court so-ever.

      But now Small Porges finding him so silent, and seeing where he looked, must needs behold her too, and gave a sudden, glad cry, and ran out from behind the great bulk of "King Arthur," and she, hearing his voice, turned and ran to meet him, and sank upon her knees before him, and clasped him against her heart, and rejoiced, and wept, and scolded him, all in a breath. Wherefore Bellew, unobserved, as yet in "King Arthur's" shadow, watching the proud head with its wayward curls, (for the sunbonnet had been tossed back upon her shoulders), watching the quick, passionate caress of those slender, brown hands, and listening to the thrilling tenderness of that low, soft voice, felt, all at once, strangely lonely, and friendless, and out of place, very rough and awkward, and very much aware of his dusty person—felt, indeed, as any other ordinary human might, who had tumbled unexpectedly into Arcadia; therefore he turned, thinking to steal quietly away.

      "You see, Auntie, I went out to try an' find a fortune for you," Small Porges was explaining, "an' I looked, an' looked, but I didn't find a bit—"

      "My dear, dear, brave Georgy!" said Anthea, and would have kissed him again, but he put her off:

      "Wait a minute, please Auntie," he said excitedly, "'cause I did find—something—just as I was growing very tired an' disappointed, I found Uncle Porges—under a hedge, you know."

      "Uncle Porges!" said Anthea, starting, "Oh! that must be the man Mr.

       Cassilis mentioned—"

      "So I brought him with me," pursued Small Porges, "an' there he is!" and he pointed triumphantly towards "King Arthur."

      Glancing thither, Anthea beheld a tall, dusty figure moving off among the trees.

      "Oh—wait, please!" she called, rising to her feet, and, with