whom, swerving aside from the lead given us by her godparents thirty years ago, we will call Agatha.

“You’re surely not buying blotting-paper here?” she exclaimed in an agitated whisper, and she seemed so genuinely concerned that I stayed my hand.

“Let me take you to Winks and Pinks,” she said as soon as we were out of the building: “they’ve got such lovely shades of blotting-paper—pearl and heliotrope and momie and crushed—”

“But I want ordinary white blotting-paper,” I said.

“Never mind.  They know me at Winks and Pinks,” she replied inconsequently.  Agatha apparently has an idea that blotting-paper is only sold in small quantities to persons of known reputation, who may be trusted not to put it to dangerous or improper uses.  After walking some two hundred yards she began to feel that her tea was of more immediate importance than my blotting-paper.

“What do you want blotting-paper for?” she asked suddenly.  I explained patiently.

“I use it to dry up the ink of wet manuscript without smudging the writing. 

Probably a Chinese invention of the second century before Christ, but I’m not sure.  The only other use for it that I can think of is to roll it into a ball for a kitten to play with.”

“But you haven’t got a kitten,” said Agatha, with a feminine desire for stating the entire truth on most occasions.

“A stray one might come in at any moment,” I replied.

Anyway, I didn’t get the blotting-paper.

THE BLOOD-FEUD OF TOAD-WATER
A WEST-COUNTRY EPIC

The Cricks lived at Toad-Water; and in the same lonely upland spot Fate had pitched the home of the Saunderses, and for miles around these two dwellings there was never a neighbour or a chimney or even a burying-ground to bring a sense of cheerful communion or social intercourse.  Nothing but fields and spinneys and barns, lanes and waste-lands.  Such was Toad-Water; and, even so, Toad-Water had its history.

Thrust away in the benighted hinterland of a scattered market district, it might have been supposed that these two detached items of the Great Human Family would have leaned towards one another in a fellowship begotten of kindred circumstances and a common isolation from the outer world. 

And perhaps it had been so once, but the way of things had brought it otherwise.  Indeed, otherwise.  Fate, which had linked the two families in such unavoidable association of habitat, had ordained that the Crick household should nourish and maintain among its earthly possessions sundry head of domestic fowls, while to the Saunderses was given a disposition towards the cultivation of garden crops.  Herein lay the material, ready to hand, for the coming of feud and ill-blood.  For the grudge between the man of herbs and the man of live stock is no new thing; you will find traces of it in the fourth chapter of Genesis.  And one sunny afternoon in late spring-time the feud came—came, as such things mostly do come, with seeming aimlessness and triviality.  One of the Crick hens, in obedience to the nomadic instincts of her kind, wearied of her legitimate scratching-ground, and flew over the low wall that divided the holdings of the neighbours.  And there, on the yonder side, with a hurried consciousness that her time and opportunities might be limited, the misguided bird scratched and scraped and beaked and delved in the soft yielding bed that had been prepared for the solace and well-being of a colony of seedling

onions.  Little showers of earth-mould and root-fibres went spraying before the hen and behind her, and every minute the area of her operations widened.  The onions suffered considerably.  Mrs. Saunders, sauntering at this luckless moment down the garden path, in order to fill her soul with reproaches at the iniquity of the weeds, which grew faster than she or her good man cared to remove them, stopped in mute discomfiture before the presence of a more magnificent grievance.  And then, in the hour of her calamity, she turned instinctively to the Great Mother, and gathered in her capacious hands large clods of the hard brown soil that lay at her feet.  With a terrible sincerity of purpose, though with a contemptible inadequacy of aim, she rained her earth bolts at the marauder, and the bursting pellets called forth a flood of cackling protest and panic from the hastily departing fowl.  Calmness under misfortune is not an attribute of either hen-folk or womenkind, and while Mrs. Saunders declaimed over her onion bed such portions of the slang dictionary as are permitted by the Nonconformist conscience to be said or sung, the Vasco da Gama fowl was waking the echoes of Toad-Water with crescendo bursts

of throat music which compelled attention to her griefs.  Mrs. Crick had a long family, and was therefore licensed, in the eyes of her world, to have a short temper, and when some of her ubiquitous offspring had informed her, with the authority of eye-witnesses, that her neighbour had so far forgotten herself as to heave stones at her hen—her best hen, the best layer in the countryside—her thoughts clothed themselves in language “unbecoming to a Christian woman”—so at least said Mrs. Saunders, to whom most of the language was applied.  Nor was she, on her part, surprised at Mrs. Crick’s conduct in letting her hens stray into other body’s gardens, and then abusing of them, seeing as how she remembered things against Mrs. Crick—and the latter simultaneously had recollections of lurking episodes in the past of Susan Saunders that were nothing to her credit.  “Fond memory, when all things fade we fly to thee,” and in the paling light of an April afternoon the two women confronted each other from their respective sides of the party wall, recalling with shuddering breath the blots and blemishes of their neighbour’s family record.  There was that aunt of Mrs. Crick’s who had died a pauper in Exeter workhouse—

every one knew that Mrs. Saunders’ uncle on her mother’s side drank himself to death—then there was that Bristol cousin of Mrs. Crick’s!  From the shrill triumph with which his name was dragged in, his crime must have been pilfering from a cathedral at least, but as both remembrancers were speaking at once it was difficult to distinguish his infamy from the scandal which beclouded the memory of Mrs. Saunders’ brother’s wife’s mother—who may have been a regicide, and was certainly not a nice person as Mrs. Crick painted her.  And then, with an air of accumulating and irresistible conviction, each belligerent informed the other that she was no lady—after which they withdrew in a great silence, feeling that nothing further remained to be said.  The chaffinches clinked in the apple trees and the bees droned round the berberis bushes, and the waning sunlight slanted pleasantly across the garden plots, but between the neighbour households had sprung up a barrier of hate, permeating and permanent.

The male heads of the families were necessarily drawn into the quarrel, and the children on either side were forbidden to have anything to do with the unhallowed

offspring of the other party.  As they had to travel a good three miles along the same road to school every day, this was awkward, but such things have to be.  Thus all communication between the households was sundered.  Except the cats.  Much as Mrs.