It was the year of Harpledon’s first “jumble sale” that all these odds and ends of observation first began to connect themselves in my mind.

Harpledon had decided that it ought to have a village hospital and dispensary, and Cranch was among the first to promise a subscription and to join the committee. A meeting was called at Mrs. Durant’s and after much deliberation it was decided to hold a village fair and jumble sale in somebody’s grounds; but whose? We all hoped Cranch would lend his garden; but no one dared to ask him. We sounded each other cautiously, before he arrived, and each tried to shift the enterprise to his neighbour; till at last Homer Davids, our chief celebrity as a painter, and one of the shrewdest heads in the community, said drily: “Oh, Cranch wouldn’t care about it.”

“How do you know he wouldn’t?” some one queried.

“Just as you all do; if not, why is it that you all want some one else to ask him?”

Mrs. Durant hesitated. “I’m sure — ” she began.

“Oh, well, all right, then! You ask him,” rejoined Davids cheerfully.

“I can’t always be the one — ”

I saw her embarrassment, and volunteered: “If you think there’s enough shade in my garden . . . ”

By the way their faces lit up I saw the relief it was to them all not to have to tackle Cranch. Yet why, having a garden he was proud of, need he have been displeased at the request?

“Men don’t like the bother,” said one of our married ladies; which occasioned the proper outburst of praise for my unselfishness, and the observation that Cranch’s maids, who had all been for years in his service, were probably set in their ways, and wouldn’t care for the confusion and extra work. “Yes, old Catherine especially; she guards the place like a dragon,” one of the ladies remarked; and at that moment Cranch appeared. Having been told what had been settled he joined with the others in complimenting me; and we began to plan for the jumble sale.

The men needed enlightenment on this point, I as much as the rest, but the prime mover immediately explained: “Oh, you just send any old rubbish you’ve got in the house.”

We all welcomed this novel way of clearing out our cupboards, except Cranch who, after a moment, and with a whimsical wrinkling of his brows, said: “But I haven’t got any old rubbish.”

“Oh, well, children’s cast-off toys for instance,” a newcomer threw out at random.

There was a general smile, to which Cranch responded with one of his rare expressive gestures, as who should say: “Toys — in my house? But whose?”

I laughed, and one of the ladies, remembering our old joke, cried out: “Why, but the hobby-horse!”

Cranch’s face became a well-bred blank. Long-suffering courtesy was the note of the voice in which he echoed: “Hobbyhorse —?”

“Don’t you remember?” It was Mrs. Durant who prompted him. “Our old joke? The wonderful black-and-white hobby-horse that Miss Lucilla Selwick said she saw you driving home with when you first arrived here? It had a real mane.” Her colour rose a little as she spoke.

There was a moment’s pause, while Cranch’s brow remained puzzled; then a smile slowly cleared his face. “Of course!” he said. “I’d forgotten. Well, I feel now that I was young enough for toys thirty years ago; but I didn’t feel so then. And we should have to apply to Miss Selwick to know what became of that hobby-horse. Meanwhile,” he added, putting his hand in his pocket, “here’s a small offering to supply some new ones for the fair.”

The offering was not small: Cranch always gave liberally, yet always produced the impression of giving indifferently. Well, one couldn’t have it both ways; some of our most gushing givers were the least lavish. The committee was delighted . . .

“It was queer,” I said afterward to Mrs. Durant. “Why did the hobby-horse joke annoy Cranch? He used to like it.”

She smiled. “He may think it’s lasted long enough. Harpledon jokes do last, you know.”

Yes; perhaps they did, though I had never thought of it before.

“There’s one thing that puzzles me,” I went on; “I never know beforehand what is going to annoy him.”

She pondered. “I’ll tell you, then,” she said suddenly. “It has annoyed him that no one thought of asking him to give one of his water-colours to the sale.”

“Didn’t we?”

“No. Homer Davids was asked, and that made it . . . rather more marked . . . ”

“Oh, of course! I suppose we all forgot — ”

She looked away. “Well,” she said, “I don’t suppose he likes to be forgotten.”

“You mean: to have his accomplishments forgotten?”

“Isn’t that a little condescending? I should say, his gifts,” she corrected a trifle sharply. Sharpness was so unusual in her that she may have seen my surprise, for she added, in her usual tone: “After all, I suppose he’s our most brilliant man, isn’t he?” She smiled a little, as if to take the sting from my doing so.

“Of course he is,” I rejoined. “But all the more reason — how could a man of his kind resent such a trifling oversight? I’ll write at once — ”

“Oh, don’t!” she cut me short, almost pleadingly.

Mrs. Durant’s word was law: Cranch was not asked for a water-colour. Homer Davids’s, I may add, sold for two thousand dollars, and paid for a heating-system for our hospital. A Boston millionaire came down on purpose to buy the picture. It was a great day for Harpledon.