WE had had a merry lunch, we had watched the tests of the draught cattle, we had all drunk pink lemonade and survived, and now, by unanimous vote, we had decided to stay and have our dinner in the “Mammoth Restaurant,” and go home by the light of the golden hunter’s moon.

The wheel of fortune had been dismantled and the man who ran it and the man who had been so lucky had gone off together. They seemed to have struck up a friendship, and I am told that it not unfrequently happens that lucky men and professional gamblers make the rounds of the various county fairs and the luck of both continues until the end of the season.

Sibthorp was not the life of the party at lunch, but Hepburn was in high spirits.

I judged that Sibthorp had been tried and found wanting and that Hepburn had been accounted worthy. Jack and Billy were their usual irresponsible selves and Tom bubbled over with a merriment that was at times elephantine but always genuine.

After lunch Sibthorp came to me and we strolled away naturally and easily. I put on my best father confessor air and waited for him to unbosom himself.

“It’s all over,” said he.

“What? You’ve asked her?”

“Yes.”

He looked so dejected that I grasped his hand.

“Maybe a cattle show was a poor place,” said I.

“I chose a poorer,” said he, “I asked her in the merry-go-round.”

“Wha-at?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to be romantic. It has often struck me that many a girl says yes because it is moonlight, or the lane is shady, or the breeze is balmy. You see I look at it from the point of view of a writer—and I thought I’d strip it of all glamour after I’d made up my mind—thanks to you—that I had a chance, and so when she said she’d like to ride around on the elephant I was fool enough to sit alongside of her on a blame little donkey and there wasn’t anybody within ear shot as the next thing behind was a wagon and they’re not popular. And just before the thing started I—well I asked her, and she burst out laughing and then she got mad and then the old thing started and we had to ride till it stopped, and then she asked me to take her away because she felt dizzy and I took her away and we ran plump into Hepburn and he asked her to go and see a man selling whips, and I went down the road a mile and wished I’d never been born. I think she felt insulted.”

I looked the other way.

“Why don’t you try again?”

“Thank you. I know when I’ve had enough.”

He left me and I went behind a large oak and sat on the grass and laughed until I cried. The idea of a sensible man sitting on a wooden donkey and asking a pretty girl on a wooden elephant if she would care to ride the merry-go-round of life with him.

“I’m afraid that Ellery is artificial,” said Ethel when I told her.

“But Hepburn is the real thing,” said I.

It was in the middle of the afternoon that Ethel and I were sitting together in a little pine grove. I had been telling her the events of the morning and now we were resting on the grass and watching the farmer folk. Oakham fair day is the great day for exchanging “visits.” Two elderly men met.

“Well, how are you doin’ it!”

“Oh, the way I always do. You’re lookin’ abaout the same. Leetle more gray but I guess you’re able to do the chores?”

“Oh, yes, ain’t had to call in Maria to do that yet. You seem to be stavin off death.”

“Fooled him so fur. Git me in the end though. That your daughter?”

“No, that’s my grandchild.”

“Well, well. Looks like your daughter Libby.”

“Libby’s daughter.”

“By Godfrey, time has a way of gittin’ along. Beats these automobiles.”

“Doos so. Well, glad I seen yer. Oakham Fair’s gre’t day to see folks. Most interestin’ exhibit. I say folks is the most interestin’ exhibit.”

“Ye-es, yes. Be’n comin’ here thirty-five years. Ever sence the fust fair.”

“Me too. Bet ye a cooky you won’t do it no thirty-five years more. Not ’nless the good Lord fergits to git ye.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Well, good bye, Silas. ’Member me to the folks.”

“I will so. Like’s not you’ll find ’em ’raound here sum’er’s. Be good.”

“Same to you y’old rascal.”

The two men shook hands and passed on and then we heard the end of a conversation on the other side of the tree—a conversation that was being carried on while two walked together.

“No, Mr. Edson, a woman always feels honoured and I hope we may always be friends.”

Ethel looked at me and her lips parted. It was Cherry’s voice. We waited to hear Hepburn speak but he did not do so.

The steps died away and Ethel rose to her feet and looked down the pathway.

Cherry was walking toward the edge of the pine woods and by her side walked a young man in whom the animation of youth seemed to be temporarily arrested.

He had not spoken a word in our hearing but we knew from the shape of his back that it was Jack.

“Three proposals in one day,” said Ethel in awed tones.

“Well, she’s worth it,” said I, and was a little astonished that Ethel did not second my assertion.

“Isn’t that Pat Casey walking with a priest?” asked Ethel suddenly.

“Yes, that’s Father Hogan and Rev. Mr. Hughson told me he was one of the greatest influences for good in Egerton.”

“I wonder if he will stop Pat from using profanity.”

“Maybe he won’t try to.”

Just then Pat left the priest, touching his cap as he did so, and a moment later he saw us and hurried over with the light little step peculiar to him, lifting his shocking bad hat as he came.

“Hello, Pat,” said I. “So you are considered a good enough man to walk with Father Hogan?”

His eyes twinkled.

“Sure it’s honoured I am by walkin’ wid him. He’s a hell of a fine man. I was just tellin’ him so. Didn’t he walk a mile out of his way yisterday to tell me he seen me ould cow I lost, roamin’ toward Maltby. First he told them to pen it up, an’ thin he come an’ told me. He’s dam sure of Heaven, that man is! No airs on him at all an’ him a friend of Archbishop Ireland.”

“Well, Pat, how’s the ould scut. Did you enter her for the race?”

“Sure I did not. She got at the oats last night an’ was feelin’ so fine this marnin’ that I knew’t’d be a sure t’hing if I entered her.”

He winked his eye at Ethel and then he said:

“An’ how’s the cherry blossom?”

“Pat, you’re a poet. She’s still on the branch.”

“Egorry, it’s the lucky man that picks her. A fine gerrul. None better in Ireland an’ that’s sayin’ arl there is to be said. I suppose ye’ll be go’n’ down one of those fine days now.”

“Yes, we expect to go to-morrow.”

“Is it so soon an’ the glory of the year so nair. Sure it’s sorry I’ll be to see the lights arl gone when I’m passin’ by in the avenin’.”

He took off his hat and extended a very dirty hand to Ethel.

She took it bravely and he said,

“If y’ave need of th’ould scut come an’ take her an’ welkim. An’ come up next yair. Give me regards to the young leddy. I’d a darter just like her wance.”

We smiled involuntarily as we contrasted Cherry and Pat.

“I’d a darter just like her, but she got consumpted an’ she’s wid the saints. She was a hell of a good gerrul.”

His eyes moistened and I understood for the first time what had made him the good-hearted man he was.

With a wave of his hand he walked lightly away.

“And yet some people don’t like the Irish,” said Ethel.

We all attended the rac............