Frank and I

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Twenty years ago, on a beautiful evening in the month of September, I was plodding along a tree-bordered road in Hampshire, on my way home after a long day’s partridge shooting. I was looking forward to the good dinner awaiting me, and I was feeling perfectly satisfied with everything, for I had had splendid sport; the “birds” had been plentiful, my dogs had been staunch, and I had missed very few shots.

I was thirty years old; a bachelor, — I am one still-and I lived, with a number of male and female servants, in a rambling, old, red brick mansion which had been in the possession of my family for several generations.

It was past six o’clock, and the rays of the setting sun, streaming between the trunks of the lofty trees, cast alternate lines of golden light’ and deep shade athwart the dusty white road. The hush of evening was over everything; no sound broke the stillness but the twittering of unseen birds; while the only living thing in sight was the solitary figure of a lad who was walking slowly along the road about a hundred yards ahead of me. As I was walking fast, I soon overtook the boy, and was about to pass him, when he asked me to tell him the time.

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