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It is much more thrilled by the simple announcement that a Sir Chichester Splay, of whom it has never heard, has bought a new pair of purple socks with white stripes than it would be by a full account of a Cabinet crisis." Once more the company laughed at Sir Chichester's apology for his foible. Lady Splay turned to Hillyard.

Millie Splay looked around at her guests with much the same expression of helpless wonderment which was so often to be seen on the face of Dennis Brown, when Miranda went racing. "It's the limit!" she declared. There were two, however, of the party, who were not at all distressed by Sir Chichester's procrastination.

Obediently, the Viscount turned the crumpled paper over, and thereafter sat staring wide-eyed at a name scrawled thereon, and from it to Barnabas and back again; for the name he saw was this: RONALD BARRYMAINE ESQUIRE. "And Dick," said Barnabas, "it is in Chichester's handwriting." The whiskers of Mr.

Chichester's right hand vanished into his bosom as Barnabas strode forward, but, on the instant, Billy Button was between them. "Stay, my Lord!" he cried, "look upon this face, 't is the face of my friend Barnaby Bright, but, my Lord, it is also the face of Joan's son. You've heard tell of Joan, poor Joan who was unhappy, and ran away, and got lost, you'll mind Joan Beverley?"

I sat down and read over the Bishop of Chichester's' sermon upon the anniversary of the King's death, much cried up, but, methinks, but a mean sermon. By and by comes in my Lord, and he and I to talke of many things in the Navy, one from another, in general, to see how the greatest things are committed to very ordinary men, as to parts and experience, to do; among others, my Lord Barkeley.

These barbarians, according to legend, were Ella and his three sons, one of whom, Cissa, is said to have given Chichester her name Cissa's camp, Cissa's Ceaster. Of Chichester's story during the Dark Ages we know as little as we know of most of the cities of England, but that it was destroyed utterly, as has been asserted, common sense refuses to allow us to believe.

Chichester's face grew suddenly livid, and haggard, and old-looking, while upon his brow the sweat had started and rolled down, glistening upon his cheeks. The fire crackled upon the hearth, the clock ticked softly in the corner, the table creaked as Barnabas leaned his weight across it, nearer and nearer, but, save for this, the place was very quiet.

In some respects Chichester's fielding work was better than the home team's. It was undying grit that won the battle -that and Dave Darrin's pitching. As the jubilant home fans left the ball grounds it was the general opinion that Dave Darrin was only the merest shade behind Dick Prescott as a pitcher. "Either one of them in the box," said Coach Luce to a friend, "and the game is half won."

As for Dick and Stukely, the latter having by this time done all that he could for his patients, they went off for a stroll together along the beach, in the direction of the southern end of the bay. "Well, Dick, what think ye of fighting, now that you have had a taste of it?" demanded Stukely, slipping his hand under Chichester's arm as they turned their backs upon the camp.

"I'm a thief, sure!" replied Peg with a little laugh. "You're the the sweetest dearest " he suddenly checked himself. His mother had come across to say "Good night" to Peg. In a few moments his sisters joined them. They all pressed invitations on Peg to call on them at "Noel's Folly" and with Mrs. Chichester's permission, to stay some days.