"Thereby Hangs a Tale" (continued 2)

In this land of granite, a clear field is an exception—the great bare bones of earth peer out in all directions; and however severe the taste of the first maker of a beaten track, unless he were ready with engineering tools and blasting appliances, instead of making his way straight forward, he would have to go round and dodge about, to avoid the masses of stone. Hence, then, many of the lanes wind and double between piled-up heaps of granite, through steep gorges, and rise and fall in the most eccentric way; while—Nature having apparently scoured the hill-tops, and swept the fertile soil into the vales along these dell-like lanes—the verdure is thick and dense; trees interlace overhead till you walk in a pale green twilight flecked with golden rays; damp dripping stones are covered with velvet moss; a tiny spring trickles here, and forms crystal pools, mirroring delicate fronds of fern; gnarled oaks twist tortuous trunks in the great banks, and throw distorted arms across the road; half hidden from sight—here five, there fifty feet below the toad—a rapid stream goes musically onward towards the sea, singing silvery songs to the little speckly trout which hide beneath the granite shelves in their crystal homes. Verdure rich and bright on every side, and above all ferns—ferns of the tiniest, and ferns tall and towering, spreading luxuriant fronds, and sending up spikes of flowers, while lesser neighbours form patches of wondrous beauty—tropic palm forests in miniature.

“Now, then, who’s going to take my picture?” cried Fin Rea, plumping herself down on a mossy stone, and snatching off her hat. “Should I do now, Tiny?”

Undoubtedly: for her lithe, slight form, in its grey muslin, stood out from the ashy brown of the oak trunk that formed the background, while a wondrous beauty of light and shade fell through the leafy network above.

“Oh, isn’t it heavenly to be back? I couldn’t live in London. I liked the theatres, and going to the race, and seeing pictures, but I should soon be tired of it all. It makes you so cross. I believe the blacks get into your temper. I say, Tiny, I wonder what Aunt Matty would be like if she lived in London?”

“Don’t make fun of poor Aunt Matty,” said her sister. “She has had a good deal of trouble in her life.”

“And made it,” said Fin, jumping up. “Oh, I say, look down there,” she cried, pointing through the ferns at her feet to a cool, dark pool, twenty feet below; “there’s a place. Oh, Tiny, if I thought I should ever grow into such a screwy, cross old maid as Aunt Matty, I think I should jump down there and let the fishes eat.”

“Fin, that little tongue of yours goes too fast,” said her sister.

“Let it,” was the laconic reply. “Tongues were made to talk with. Let’s go on; I’m tired of digging up ferns. Wasn’t it funny, seeing Humphrey Lloyd at that race? And I wonder who those gentlemen were.”

“Do you mean the people who stared at us so through the race-glass?”

“No, I don’t, Miss Forgetful. I mean the big, dark man, and the funny, little fierce fellow with his hair brushed into points. You don’t remember, I suppose?”

“Oh yes,” said Tiny, quietly. “I remember, for I was very much frightened.”

“Ah, I hope the knight-errant wasn’t hurt; and, oh, do look, Tiny,” Fin cried, putting down her basket. “What’s that growing in that tree?”

As she spoke, she climbed from stone to stone up the steep bank, till she was stopped short by her dress being caught by a bramble.

“Oh, Tiny, come and unloose me, do. I’m caught.”

There was nothing for it but that her sister should clamber up the bank, and unhook the dress, which she did, when Fin gave her a hand, and drew her up to her side.

“What a tomboy you do keep, Fin,” said Tiny, panting; “see how my dress is torn.”

“Never mind, I’ll sew it up for you. What’s the good of living in the country if you can’t be free as the birds? Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, you beauty!” she cried, as a goldfinch sounded his merry lay. “Tiny, shouldn’t you like to be a bird?”

“No,” was the quiet reply. “I would rather be what I am.”

“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.

“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”

“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.

“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”

“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.

“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.

“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.

“But what are you trying to do?”

“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”

“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny—“yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe, is it, Miss? Ahem!” cried Finn, resting one little fist upon her hip,—and stretching out the other—“Tableau—young Druid priestess about to cut the sacred plant with a fern trowel.”

“Fin, dear, do come down. Don’t touch it.”

“Not touch it? But I will. There!” she cried, tearing off a piece of the pretty parasite. “I’ll wear that in my hat all the way home as a challenge to nobody, and on purpose to make Aunt Matty cross. She’ll—”

“Hist, Fin; oh, be quiet,” whispered Tiny.

“Eh? What’s the matter?” cried Fin, from her perch.

“Oh, pray be quiet; here’s somebody coming.”

“Never mind,” said Fin. “You stand behind the tree—they can’t see us—till I shout ‘Hallo!’”

But Fin kept very quiet, peering down squirrel-wise, as a step was heard coming along the lane, and she caught glimpses through the trees of a man in a rough tweed suit and soft felt hat. The face was that of a keen, earnest man of eight-and-forty, with a full beard, just touched by life’s frost, sharp dark eyes, and altogether a countenance not handsome, but likely to win confidence.

The newcomer was walking with an easy stride, humming scraps of some ditty, and he swung by his side an ordinary tin can, holding about a quart of some steaming compound.

“It’s Saint Timothy,” whispered Fin, from her perch. “Keep close.”

Tiny drew her dress closer together, and pressed to the tree trunk, looking terribly guilty, while her sister went on watching.

The steps came nearer, and the stepper’s eyes were busy with a keen look for everything, as he seemed to feast on the beauties of Nature around him.

“‘I love the merry, merry sunshine,’” he sang, in a bold, bluff voice; “and—Hallo, what the dickens have we here?” he cried, stopping short, and setting two hearts beating quickly. “Lady’s basket and ferns dug up—yes, within the last hour. Why, that must be—Hallo, I spy, hi!”

For as he spoke his eyes had been wandering about, amongst the brakes and bushes, and he had caught sight of a bit of muslin dress peeping out from behind a gnarled oak.

The result of his summons was that the scrap of dress was softly drawn out of sight, and a voice from up in the ties whispered—

“Oh, go down, Tiny, and then he won’t see me.”

“Hallo! whispers in the wind,” cried the newcomer, glancing higher, and seeing a bit of Fin. “Is it a bird? By Jove, I wish I’d a gun. No: poachers—trespassers. Here, you fellows, come out!”

Jenkles’s Confession.

Sam Jenkles always boasted that he never kept anything from his wife; but he was silent for two days; and then, after a hard day’s work, he was seated in his snug kitchen, watching the browning of a half-dozen fine potatoes in a Dutch oven before the fire, when Mrs Jenkles, a plump, bustling little woman, who was stitching away at a marvellous rate, her needle clicking at every stroke, suddenly exclaimed—

“Sam, you’d better give me that two pound you’ve got, and I’ll put it with the rest.”

Sam didn’t answer, only tapped his pipe on the hob.

Mrs Jenkles glanced at him, and then said—

“Did you hear what I said, Sam?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you give it me? Draw that oven back an inch.”

“Aint got it—only half a sov,” said Sam, leaving the potatoes to burn.

Mrs Jenkles dropped her work upon her lap, and her face grew very red.

“Didn’t you say, Sam, that if I’d trust you, you wouldn’t do so any more?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve broke your word, Sam.”

“I aint, ’pon my soul, I aint, Sally,” cried Sam, earnestly. “I’ve had my pint for dinner, and never touched a drop more till I had my pint at home.”

“Then where’s that money?”

“Spent it,” said Sam, laconically.

“Yes, at the nasty public-houses, Sam. An’ it’s too bad, and when I’d trusted you!”

“Wrong!” said Sam.

“Then where is it?”

“Fooled it away.”

“Yes, of course. But I didn’t expect it, Sam; I didn’t, indeed.”

“All your fault,” said Sam.

“Yes, for trusting you,” said Mrs Jenkles, bitterly. “Nice life we lead: you with the worst horse and the worst cab on the rank, and me with the worst husband.”

“Is he, Sally?” said Sam, with a twinkle of the eye.

“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, angrily; “and that makes it all the worse, when he might be one of the best. Oh, Sam,” she said, pitifully, “do I ever neglect you or your home?”

“Not you,” he said, throwing down his pipe, and looking round at the shining tins, bright fireplace, and general aspect of simple comfort and cleanliness. “You’re the best old wife in the world.”

And he got up and stood behind her chair with his arms round her neck.

“Don’t touch me, Sam. I’m very, very much hurt.”

“Well, it was all your fault, little woman,” he said, holding the comely face, so that his wife could not look round at him.

“And how, pray?” said she.

“Didn’t you send me up to see that poor woman as Ratty knocked down?”

“Yes; but did you go?”

“To be sure I did—you told me to go.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you had been?”

“Didn’t like to,” said Sam.

“Such stuff!” cried Mrs Jenkles. “But what’s that got to do with it?”

Sam remained silent.

“What’s that got to do with it, Sam?”

Silence still.

“Now, Sam, you’ve got something on your mind, so you’d better tell me. Have you been drinking?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Sam, “and I don’t mean to again.”

“Then I’m very sorry for what I said.”

“I know that,” said Sam.

“But what does it all mean?”

“Well, you see,” said Sam, “I’ve been a fool.”

And after a little more hesitation, he told all about his visit.

Mrs Jenkles sat looking at the fire, rubbing her nose with her thimble, both she and Sam heedless that the potatoes were burning.

“You’ve been took in, Sam, I’m afraid,” she said at last.

“Think so?” he said.

“Well, I hope not; but you’ve either been took in, or done a very, very kind thing.”

“Well, we shall see,” he said.

“Yes, we shall see.”

“You aint huffy with me?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Mrs Jenkles; “but I shall go up and see them.”

“Ah, do,” said Sam.

“Yes, I mean to see to the bottom of it,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I haven’t patience with such ways.”

“They can’t help being poor.”

“I don’t mean them; I mean those people they’re with. I couldn’t do it.”

“Not you,” said Sam. “But I say, don’t Mr Lacy go next week?”

“Yes.”

“And the rooms will be empty?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Jenkles. “I have put the bill up in the window; he said he didn’t mind.”

Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and looked at his wife.

Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts. Then she jumped up suddenly.

“Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!”

They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his allowance.

“Ah!” he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, “this here’s a luxury as the swells never gets—a regular good, hot, mealy tater, fresh from the fire. It’s a wonderful arrangement of nature that about taters.”

“Why?” said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another potato on her husband’s plate. “What do you mean?”

“Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of talking about beer, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.

“All right, my dear,” said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco—“Ah! this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift.”

Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table, before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.

“Ratty went first-rate to-day,” said Sam, after a few puffs.

But Mrs Jenkles did not take any notice; she only made her needle click, and Sam kept glancing at her as he went on smoking. At last she spoke.

“I shall go up and see those people, Sam, for I’m afraid you’ve been taken in. Was she a married woman.”

“Yes,” said Sam; “I saw her ring. But I say, you know, ’taint my fault, Sally,” he said, plaintively. “I was born a soft un.”

“Then it’s time you grew hard, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles, bending over her work. “Thirty shillings takes a deal of saving with people like us.”

“Yes,” said Sam, “it do, ’specially when you has so many bad days to make up.”

“You ought not to have to pay more than twelve shillings a day for that cab, Sam.”

“I told the gov’nor so, and he said as it oughter be eighteen, and plenty would be glad to get it at that.”

Mrs Jenkles tightened her mouth, and shook her head.

“Oh! I say, Sally,” said Sam, plaintively, “I’ve been worried about that money; and now it was off my mind, I did think as it was all right. You’ve reglarly put my pipe out.”

Mrs Jenkles rose, took a splint from the chimney-piece, lit it, and handed it to her husband.

“No,” he said, rubbing his ear with the stem of his pipe, “it aint that, my dear; I meant figgeratively, as old Jones says.”

Mrs Jenkles threw the match into the fire, and resumed her work for a few minutes; then glanced at the clock, and put away her work.

“Yes, Sam, I shall go to Upper Holloway to-morrow, and see what I think.”

“Do, my lass, do,” said Sam, drearily. Then, in an undertone, as he tapped his pipe-bowl on the hob, “Well, it’s out now, and no mistake. Shall we go to bed?”

“Our next meeting.”

Fin Rea stood gazing down for a few moments, and then said—“No, indeed, I can’t, Mr Mervyn. Pray go.”

“Oh, Mr Mervyn,” said Tiny, softly, “don’t tease her any more.”

“It is hard to refuse such a request,” said the newcomer; “but, as trespassers, you must leave me to administer punishment. And, besides, I owe Miss Fin here a grudge. She has been laughing at me, I hear.”

“I’ll never do so any more, Mr Mervyn—I won’t indeed,” cried Fin; “only let me off this time.”

“Jump, you little gipsy, jump,” cried Mr Mervyn.

“It’s too high—I daren’t,” cried Fin.

“I have seen you leap down from a place twice as high, my little fawn. Now, then, jump at once.”

Fin looked despairingly round for a few moments, then made a piteous grimace, and lastly sprang boldly down into the strong arms, which held her as if she had been a child.

“Now,” said Mr Mervyn, “about the mistletoe?”

“Mr Mervyn, pray. Oh, it’s too bad. I...”

“Don’t be frightened, little one,” he said, tenderly, as he retained her with one hand, to smooth her breeze-blown hair with the other. “There, come along; let me help you down.”

But Fin started from him, like the fawn he had called her, and sprang down the great bank.

“Mind my soup,” shouted Mr Mervyn; and only just in time, for it was nearly overset. Then he helped Tiny down, blushing and vexed; but no sooner were they in the lane, than Fin clapped her hands together, and exclaimed—

“Oh, Mr Mervyn, don’t go and tell everybody what a rude tomboy of a sister Tiny is blessed with. I am so ashamed.”

“Come along, little ones,” he said, laughing, as he stooped to pick up the tin, and at the same time handed Fin her basket.

“How nice the soup smells,” said Fin, mischievously.

“Yes; you promised to come and taste it some day,” said Mr Mervyn; “but you have never been. I’m very proud of my soup, young ladies, and have many a hard fight with Mrs Dykes about it.”

“Do you?” said Tiny, for he looked seriously at her as he spoke.

“What about?” said Fin, coming to her sister’s help.

“About the quantity of water,” said Mr Mervyn. “You know we’ve a big copper for the soup; and Mrs Dykes has an idea in her head that eight quarts of water go to the gallon, mine being that there are only four.”

“Why, of course,” laughed Fin.

“So,” said Mr Mervyn, “she says I have the soup too strong, while I say she wants to make it too weak.”

“And what does old Mrs Trelyan say?”

“Say?” laughed Mr Mervyn. “Oh, the poor old soul lets me take it to her as a favour, and says she eats it to oblige me.”

“It’s so funny with the poor people about,” said Fin; “they want things, but they won’t take them as if you were being charitable to them; they all try to make it seem like a favour they are doing you.”

“Well, I don’t know that I object to that much,” said Mr Mervyn.

“They’re all pleased enough to see us,” continued Fin; “but when Aunt Matty and papa go they preach at them, and the poor people don’t like it.”

“Fin!” said Tiny, in a warning voice.

“I don’t care,” said Fin; “it’s only Mr Mervyn, and we may speak to him. I say, Mr Mervyn, did you hear about old Mrs Poltrene and Aunt Matty?”

“Fin!” whispered Tiny, colouring.

“I will tell Mr Mervyn; it isn’t any harm,” cried downright Fin.

And her sister, seeing that she only made matters worse, remained silent.

“Mr Mervyn, you know old Mrs Poltrene, of course?”

“Oh yes, the old fisherman’s wife down by the cliff.”

“Yes; and Aunt Matty went to see her, and talked to her in her way, and it made the old lady so cross that—that—oh, I mustn’t tell you.”

“Nonsense, child, go on.”

“She—she told Aunt Matty to go along and get married,” tittered Fin, “and she could stay at home and mend her husband’s stockings, and leave people alone; and Aunt Matty thought it so horrible that she came home and went to bed.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr Mervyn. “Mrs Poltrene has a temper; but here we are—you’ll come in?”

Tiny was for drawing back, but her sister prevailed. They had been walking along the lane, and had now reached a long, low cottage, built after the fashion of the district, with massive blocks of granite, and roofed with slabs of the same. There was a strip of garden, though gardens were almost needless, banked up as the place was on all sides with the luxuriant wild growth of the valley. On one side, though, of the doorway was the simple old fuchsia of bygone days, with a stem here as thick as a man’s wrist—a perfect fuchsia tree, in fact; and on the other side, leafing and flowering right over the roof, a gigantic hydrangea, the flower we see in eastern England in pots, but here of a delicious blue.

“Any one at home,” said Mr Mervyn, walking straight in. “Here, Mrs Trelyan, I’ve brought you two visitors,” and a very old, white-haired woman, who was making a pilchard net, held her hand over her forehead.

“Sit down, girls—sit down,” she said, in the melodious sing-song voice of the Cornish people. “I know them—they come and see me sometimes. Eh? How am I? But middling—but middling. It’s been a bad season for me. Oh, soup? Ah, you’ve brought me some more soup; you may empty it into that basin. I didn’t want it; but you may leave it. They’ve brought me up some hake and a few herrings, so I could have got on without. That last soup was too salt, master.”

“Was it?” said Mr Mervyn, giving a merry glance at Fin. “Well, never mind, I’ll speak to Mrs Dykes about it.”

“Ay, she’s an east-country woman. Those folks don’t know much about cooking. Well, young ladies, I hear you have been to London.”

“Yes, Mrs Trelyan.”

“And you’re glad to come back?”

“Yes, that we are,” said Fin.

“Ay, I’ve heard it’s a poor, lost sort of place, London,” said the old lady. “I never went, and I never would. My son William wanted to take me once in his boot; but I wouldn’t go. Your father was a wise man to buy Tolcarne; but it’ll never be such a place as Penreife.”

“You know young Trevor’s coming back?” said Mr Mervyn.

“Ay, I know,” said the old lady. “Martha Lloyd came up to tell me, as proud as a peacock, about her young master, talking about his fine this and fine that, till she nearly made me sick. I should get rid of her and her man if I was him.”

“What, Lloyd, the butler?” said Mr Mervyn, smiling.

“Yes,” said the old lady, grimly, “they’re Welsh people; so’s that young farm-bailiff of his.”

“You know the whole family?” said Mr Mervyn.

“Why, I was born here!” said the old lady, “and I ought to. We’ve been here for generations. Ah! and so the young squire’s coming back. Time he did; going gadding off into foreign countries all this time. Why, he’s six or seven and twenty now. Ay, how time goes,” continued the old lady, who was off now on her hobby. “Why, it was like yesterday that the Lloyds got Mrs Trevor to send for their sister from some place with a dreadful name; and she did, and I believe it was her death, when she might have had a good Cornish nurse; and the next thing we heard was that there was a son, and the very next week there was a grand funeral, and the poor squire was never the same man again. Ah! it was an artful trick that—sending for the nurse because Mrs Lloyd wanted her too; and young Humphrey Lloyd was born the same week. Ay, they were strange times. It seemed directly after that we had the news about the squire, who got reckless-like, always out in his yacht, a poor matchwood sort of a thing, not like our boots, and it was blown on the Longships one night, and there wasn’t even a body came ashore.”

“Rather a sad family history,” said Mr Mervyn.

“Ay, sad enough,” said the woman; “and now the young squire’s coming home at last from sea, but he’ll never be such a man as his father.”

“Think not?” said Mr Mervyn, musing.

“Sure not,” said the old woman. “Why, he was petted and spoiled by those Lloyds while he was a boy, and a pretty limb he was. Him and that young Lloyd was always in some mischief. Pretty pranks they played me. I’ve been out with the stick to ’em scores of times; but he was generous—I will say that—and many’s the conger and bass he’s brought me here, proud of ’em as could be, because he caught them himself.”

“Well, Mrs Trelyan, we must say good morning,” said Tiny, rising and taking the old lady’s hand. “Is there anything you would like—anything we can bring you?”

“No, child, no,” said the old lady; “I don’t want anything. If you’d any good tea, I’d use a pinch; but I’m not asking for it, mind that.”

“Where’s your snuff-box, granny?” said Mr Mervyn, bringing out a small canister from his pocket.

“Oh, it’s here,” said the old lady, fishing out and opening her box to show it was quite empty. “I don’t know that I want any, though.”

“Try that,” said Mr Mervyn, filling it full; and the old lady took a pinch. “That’s not bad, is it?”

“N-n-no, it’s not bad,” said the old lady, “but I’ve had better.”

“No doubt,” said Mr Mervyn, smiling.

“By the way, Mrs Trelyan, how old are you?”

“Ninety next month,” said the old lady; “and—dear, dear, what a bother visitors are. Here’s somebody else coming.”

For at that moment there was a firm step heard without, and some one stooped and entered the doorway, hardly seeing the group on his left in the gloomy room.

“Is Mrs Trelyan at home?” he said; and Tiny Rea laid her hand upon her sisters arm.

“Yes, young man,” said the old lady, shading her eyes, and gazing at the strongly-built figure before her. “I’m Mrs Trelyan, and what may you want?”

“To see how you are, granny. I’m Richard Trevor.”

“And—and—” cried the old woman, letting fall her net as she rose slowly and laid her hand upon his arm; “and only a minute ago I was talking about you, and declaring you’d never be such a man as your father. My dear boy, how you have grown.”

“One does grow in twelve years, granny,” said the young man. “Well, I’m glad to see you alive and hearty.”

“Thank you, my boy,” said the old lady; and then turning and pointing to the wall, “Look!” she said, “that’s the very stick that I took away from you one day for teasing my hens. You were a bad boy. You know you were.”

“I suppose I was,” said the young man, smiling. “But I beg pardon; you have company, granny.”

“Oh, that’s only Mr Mervyn, my dear, and he’s going; and those are only the two girls from Tolcarne. I let them come and see me sometimes, but they’re going now.”

“Mr Mervyn,” said the young man, holding out his hand, which was taken in a strong grip, “I am glad to meet so near a neighbour; perhaps you will introduce me to the ladies?”

“That I will,” said Mr Mervyn, heartily. “Mr Trevor!”

“It’s Squire Trevor now, Mr Mervyn,” said the old lady, with some show of impatience.

“I beg pardon,” said Mr Mervyn, smiling. “Squire Trevor, your very near neighbours, Miss Rea, Miss Finetta Rea, of Tolcarne.”

“Ladies whom I have had the pleasure of meeting before,” said Trevor, with a smile.

And then, in a confusion of bows, the two girls made their retreat, followed by Mr Mervyn.

“Oh, Fin, how strange!” exclaimed Tiny; “it’s the gentleman who struck that man at the race.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Fin; “and that horrid little creature’s sure to be close behind.”

Sam Jenkles Prepares for an Expedition.

“There you are, Ratty,” said Sam Jenkles, sticking a small yellow sunflower in each of his horse’s blinkers, before mounting to his perch and driving out of the yard. “Now you look ’andsome. Only recklect ’andsome is as ’andsome does; so just putt your right leg fust for once in a way.”

He walked round the horse, giving it a smooth here and a smooth there with his worn-out glove, and patting its neck, before walking back, and beginning to button-up for the day.

“Blest if ever I see such a tail in my life as he’s got,” he muttered. “Wonder what a hartificial one ’ud cost. It aint no kind o’ use to comb it, ’thout you want to comb it all out and leave no tail at all I wouldn’t care if it warn’t so ragged.”

It certainly was a melancholy-looking tail, but only in keeping with the rest of the horse’s personal appearance, which was of the most dejected—dispirited. If it had only been black, the steed would have been the beau ideal beast for a workhouse hearse; as he was of a dingy brown, he was relegated to a cab.

“What’s the matter, Sam?” said a cleaner, coming up—a man with a stable pail of water in one hand, a spoke-brush in the other, and a general exemplification of how, by degrees, Nature will make square people fit into round holes, and the reverse; for, by the constant carriage of stable pails, the man’s knees had gone in, and out of the perpendicular, so as to allow for the vessels’ swing.

“What’s the matter, Buddy? Why, everythink. Look at that there ’oss—look at his tail.”

“Well, he aint ’andsome, suttunly,” said the helper.

“’Andsome!” exclaimed Sam; “no, nor he aint anythink else. He won’t go, nor he won’t stop. If you wants him to ’old ’is ’ead up, he ’angs it down; and if you wants him to ’old it down, he shoves it up in the air, and goes shambling along like a sick camel. He’s all rules of contrairy.”

“’Oppin’ about like a little canary,” chimed in the helper.

“’Oppin’ about!” said Sam, in a tone of disgust. “I should just like to see him, if on’y for once in a way. I tell yer what it is, Buddy, I believe sometimes all he does is to lift his legs up, one at a time, an’ lean up agin his collar. Natur’ does the rest.”

“Werry likely,” said Buddy; “but you can’t expect everything in a cab ’oss.”

“Heverythink?” said Sam. “I don’t expect everythink; I only want some-think; and all you’ve got there,” he continued, pointing with one thumb over his shoulder at the unfortunate Ratty, “is so much walking cats’-meat.”

“Yes, he aint ’andsome, suttunly,” said Buddy again, screwing up one side of his face. “But why don’t you smooth him over? Try kindness, and give the whip a ’ollerday.”

“Kindness—whip—’ollerday! Why, I’m like a father to ’im. Look here.”

Sam went to the little boot at the back of his cab, and tugged out the horse’s nose-bag, which was lined at the bottom with tin, so that it would have held water.

“See that?” said Sam.

“Yes: what’s it for?” said Buddy.

“Beer,” said Sam, fiercely, “beer! Many’s the ’arfpint I’ve poured in there along of his chopped meat, jest to cheer him up a bit, and he aint got no missus to smell his breath. I thought that ’ud make ’im go if anythink would.”

“Well, didn’t it?” said Buddy, rubbing his ear with the spoke-brush.

“Didn’t it?” said Sam. “Lets out at me with his orf ’ind leg, and then comes clay mill, and goes round and round till he oughter ’ave been dizzy, but he worn’t. There never was sech a ungrateful beast.”

Buddy grinned as Sam stuffed back the nose-bag, the horse shaking his head the while.

“Try it on me, Sam,” said Buddy, as the driver prepared to mount. “I won’t let out with no orf ’ind legs.”

Sam winked, and climbed to his perch.

“What’s the flowers for, Sam?” said the helper.

“The missus. Goin’ to call for her, and drive her to Upper ’ollerway,” said Sam, “afore I goes on the rank.”

“Oh, will you tell her,” said Buddy, earnestly, “as Ginger’s ever so much better, and can a’most putt his little leg to the ground? He eats that stuff she brought him like fun.”

“What stuff was that?” said Sam, gathering up the reins.

“Sorter yaller jally,” said Buddy.

“What, as smells o’ lemons?” said Sam.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Buddy; “he just do like it.”

“How long’s he been bad now?”

“Twelve weeks,” said Buddy; “and he’s been ’most worn to skin and bone; but he’s pulling up now. Takes his corn.”

“Mornin’,” said Sam.

He tried to start; but Batty moved sidewise, laid a blinker against the whitewashed wall of the yard, and rubbed it up and down, so that it had to be wiped over with a wet leather by Buddy; and when that was done, he tried to back the cab into a narrow stable door. After that, though, he seemed better, and began to go in a straight line.

“Tried that there game at a plate-glass winder t’other day,” said Sam, shouting over his shoulder as he left the yard. “He’d ha’ done it, too, if it hadn’t been for a lamp-post.”

Sam and his steed went gently out of Grey’s Inn Lane towards Pentonville, where, in a little quiet street, Mrs Jenkles resided, and Sam began musing as he went along—

“I smelt that there stuff in the cupboard, and meant to ask her what it was, but I forgot. On’y to think of her making that up, and taking it to poor Buddy’s little bairn! Well, she’s a good sort, is the missus, on’y she will be so hard on me about a drop o’ beer. ’Old that there ’ead still, will yer? What are yer lookin’ arter, there? Oh! that cats-meat barrer. Ah! yer may well shy at that, Ratty; I don’t wonder at it. Now, then, get on, old boy, the missus ’ll be waiting.”

On reaching Spring Place, where Sam dwelt, the horse objected. He was sawing along in a straightforward way, when Sam drew one rein, with the consequence that the horse’s head came round, his long neck bending till the animal’s face was gazing at him in a dejected, lachrymose fashion: Ratty seeming to say, as plainly as looks would express it, “What are you doing?” while all the time the legs went straight forward up Pentonville Hill.

They had got twenty yards past Spring Place before Sam could pull the horse up; and then he had to get down to take it by the head and turn it in a very ignominious fashion.

“Jest opposite a public, too,” said Sam. “I never did see such a haggravating beast as you are, Ratty. Here, come along. It aint no wonder as fellows drinks, with a place offering ’em the stuff every five minutes of their lives, and when they’ve got a Ratty to lead ’em right up to it. Come on, will yer?”

Mrs Jenkles was standing at the door ready, in a blue bonnet and red Paisley shawl—for she was a woman of her word. She had said that she would go up and see those people, and Sam had promised to drive her.

Going the Rounds.

Fin was quite right. They had not gone above a couple of hundred yards down the lane, with Mr Mervyn between them, swinging his empty soup tin, when they became aware of a loud whistling, as of some one practising a polka. Then it would cease for a few moments, and directly after begin again.

“There’s somebody,” said Fin; and then, turning a sharp corner, they came suddenly on Mr Frank Pratt, perched in a sitting posture on the top of a huge, round lith of granite, with his back to them, and his little legs stretching out almost at right angles. He was in his threatened tweeds, a natty little deerstalker’s hat was cocked on one side of his head; in one hand he held a stick, and in the other a large pipe, from which he drew refreshment between the strains of the polka he tried to whistle.

Mr Frank Pratt was evidently enjoying the beauty of the place after his own particular fashion; for, being a short man, he had a natural love for elevated places. As a boy, he had delighted in climbing trees, and sitting in the highest fork that would bear him, eating cakes or munching apples; as a man, cakes and apples had given way to extremely black pipes, in company with which he alternately visited the top of the Monument, the Duke of York’s column, and the golden gallery of Saint Paul’s, where he regretted that the cost was eighteen-pence to go any higher. In these places, where it was strictly forbidden, he indulged in surreptitious smokes, from which his friends deduced the proposition that if not the cakes, probably the apples had been stolen.

The tail stone then being handy, Mr Pratt was enjoying himself, when he suddenly became aware of steps behind, and hopped down in a most ungraceful fashion to stare with astonishment so blank, that by the time he had raised his hat Fin had gone by with her chin raised in the air, and a very disdainful look upon her countenance, and her sister, with a slightly heightened colour, had plunged into conversation with Mr Mervyn.

Pratt stood half paralysed for a few moments, watching the party, until a turn in the lane hid them from sight, and then he refilled and lit his pipe, from which the burning weed had fallen.

“It’s a mistake,” he said at last, between tremendous puffs at his pipe. “It’s impossible. I don’t believe it. One might call it a hallucination, only that the beardless female face is so similar in one woman to another that a man easily makes a mistake. Those cannot be the same girls that we saw at the steeplechase—it isn’t possible; but there is a resemblance, certainly; and, treating the thing philosophically, I should say here we have the real explanation of what is looked upon as infidelity in the male being.”

A few puffs from the pipe, and then Mr Pratt reclimbed to his perch upon the stone.

“I’ll carry that out, and then write it down as a position worthy of argument. Yes, to be sure. Here it is. A man falls in love—say, for the sake of argument, at first sight, with a pretty girl, quite unknown to him before, upon a racecourse. Symptoms: a feeling of sympathetic attraction; a throbbing of the pulses; and the heart beating bob and go one. Say he gets to know the girl; is engaged to her; and is then separated by three or four hundred miles.”

A few more puffs, and sundry nods of the head, and then Mr Pratt went on.

“He there encounters another girl, whose face and general appearance are so much like the face and general appearance of girl number one, that his secondary influences—to wit, heart, pulses, and sympathies generally—immediately give signals; love ensues, and he declares and is accepted by girl number two, while girl number one says he is unfaithful. The man is not unfaithful; it is simply an arrangement of Nature, and he can’t help himself. Infidelity, then, is the same thing in a state of change. Moral: Nature has no business to make women so much alike.”

Mr Pratt got down once more from his perch, and began to stroll up the lane, to encounter Trevor at the end of a few minutes.

“Did you meet any one?” was the inquiry.

“Yes,” said Pratt, “a gentleman and two ladies.”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“Did you not know them?”

“Ah!” said Pratt, “then you, too, noticed the similarity of feature, did you?”

“Similarity?”

“Yes; wonderfully like the ladies we met at the steeplechase, were they not?”

Richard Trevor looked hard in his friend’s face for a moment, and then they walked on side by side; for at a turn of the lane they met the young keeper, who had so suddenly changed the aspect of the encounter on the course.

“Ah, Humphrey!” said Trevor, “I’m glad I’ve met you. I’ll have a walk round the preserves.”

The young keeper touched his hat, changed the double gun from one shoulder of his well-worn velveteen coat to the other, whistled to a setter, and led the way to a stone stile.

“Another curious case of similarity of feature,” said Trevor, laughing.

“Well, no—I’ll give in now,” said Pratt; “but I say, Dick, old fellow, ought coincidences like this to occur out of novels?”

“Never mind that,” said Trevor, “the keeper here, who used to be my playmate as a boy, was as much astonished as I was—weren’t you, Humphrey?”

“Well, sir,” said the young man, “when I see you th’ other morning, I couldn’t believe my eyes like, that the gentleman who’d pummelled that fellow was the one I’d come up to London to meet. I saw you, too, sir,” he said, touching his hat to Pratt.

“Yes, my man,” said Pratt, “and felt my toe. I’m sorry to find you did, for you’ve blown up one of the most beautiful propositions I ever made in my life.”

“Well, now then,” said Trevor, “I’ll see about matters with you, Lloyd; but, by the way, you had better be Humphrey, on account of your father.”

“Yes, sir; Humphrey, please, sir,” said the young man.

“Well, now then, as we go on,” said Trevor, “if it don’t bore you, Pratt, we’ll have a talk about farm matters.”

“Won’t bore me,” said Pratt; “I’m going in for the country gentleman while I stay.”

“Well, then, Humphrey, how are the crops!”

“Well, sir,” said Humphrey. “Ah, Juno! what are you sniffing after there?” This to the young dog, which seemed to have been born with a mission to push its head up rabbit burrows too small for the passage. “Well, sir, begging your pardon, but that dog’s took more looking after than e’er a one I ever had.”

“All right, go on,” said Trevor, following the man across a broad, rock-sided ditch, with a little brook at the bottom.

“Well, sir,” said the keeper, “the corn is—”

“Here, I say, hold hard a minute! This isn’t Pall Mall, Trevor,” shouted Pratt. “How the deuce am I to get over that place?”

“Jump, man,” cried Trevor, laughing and looking back. “That’s nothing to some of our ditches.”

Pratt looked at the ditch, then down at his little legs, and then blew out his cheeks.

“Risk it,” he said, laconically; and, stepping back a few yards, he took a run, jumped, came short, and had to scramble up the bank, a little disarranged, but smiling and triumphant. “All right,” he said, “go on.”

“Corn is, on the whole, a fair crop, sir,” said Humphrey.

“And barley?”

“Plenty of that too, sir. But I’ve a deal of trouble with trespassers, sir.”

“How’s that?” said Trevor, looking round at the bright, rugged hill and dale, with trees all aglow with the touch of autumn’s hand.

“You see, sir, it’s the new people,” said the keeper.

“What new people?”

“The old gentleman as bought Tolcarne, sir.”

“Well, what of him?” said Trevor, rather anxiously.

“Well, sir, he’s a magistrate and a Sir, and a great City of London man, and he wants to be quite the squire. The very first thing he does is to get two men to work on the estate, and who does he get but that Dick Darley and Sam Kelynack; and a nice pair they are, as you may know, sir.”

“Seeing that I’ve been away for years, Humphrey, I don’t know,” said Trevor.

“Well, sir, they was both turned out of their last places—one for a bit o’ poaching, and the other for being always on the drink. They know I don’t like ’em—both of ’em,” said Humphrey, with the veins swelling in his white forehead; “and no sooner do they get took on, than they begin to worry me.”

“How?” said Trevor, smiling.

“Trespassing on my land, sir—I mean yours, sir, begging your pardon, sir. They will do it, too, sir. You see, there’s a bit of land at the corner where Penreife runs right into the Tolcarne estate—sort of tongue o’ land, sir—and to save going round, they make a path right across there, sir, over our bit of pasture.”

“Put up a fence, Humphrey,” said Trevor.

“I do, sir, and bush it, and set up rails; but they knocks ’em down, and tramples all over the place. Sir Hampton’s got an idea that he’s a right to that bit, as his land comes nigh surrounding it, and that makes ’em so sarcy.”

“Well, we must see to it,” said Trevor. “I want to be good friends with all my neighbours.”

“Then you’ve cut out your work,” said Pratt, drily.

“You won’t be with Sir Hampton, sir, you may reckon on that,” said Humphrey. “Lady Rea is a kind, pleasant lady enough, and the young ladies is very nice, sir, and he’s been civil enough to me; but he upsets everybody nearly—him and his sister.”

“Never mind about that,” said Trevor, checking him. “I wish to be on good terms with my neighbours, and if there be any trespass—any annoyance from Sir Hampton’s people—tell me quietly, and I will lay the matter before their master.”

“Or we might get up a good action for trespass,” said Pratt. “But, by the way,” he said, stopping short, and sticking one finger on his forehead, “is this Sir Hampton the chuffy old gentleman we saw at the steeplechase?”

“Yes, sir; and as told me I might get up on the box-seat. That was him, you know, as that blackguard prodded with his stick.”

“Phew!” whistled Pratt. “I say, Dick,” he whispered, “the old chap did not see us under the best of auspices.”

“No; it’s rather vexing,” was the reply.

They walked on from dense copse to meadow, through goodly fields of grain, and down in deep little vales, with steep sides covered with fern, bramble, and stunted pollard oaks.

“Poor youth!” said Pratt, and stopped to mop his forehead. “How low-spirited you must feel to be the owner of such a place. It’s lovely. Nature’s made it very beautiful; but no wonder—see what practice she has had.”

Trevor laughed, and Humphrey smiled, saying—

“If you come a bit farther this way, sir, there’s a capital view of the house.”

Pratt followed the man; and there, at about half a mile distance, on the slope of a steep hill, was the rugged, granite-built seat—Penreife—half ancient, half modern; full of buttresses, gables, awkward chimney-stacks, and windows of all shapes, with the ivy clustering over it greenly, and a general look of picturesque comfort that no trimly-built piece of architecture could display. The house stood at the end of one of the steep valleys running up from the sea, which shone in the autumn sun about another half-mile farther, with grey cottages clustering on the cliff, and a little granite-built harbour, sheltering some half a dozen duck-shaped luggers and a couple of yachts.

“Ah,” said Pratt, “that’s pretty! Beats Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street all to fits. Is that your master’s yacht?”

“The big ’un is, sir—the Sea Launce,” said Humphrey; “the little ’un’s Mr Mervyn’s—the Swallow.”

“By the way, who is this Mr Mervyn?” said Trevor, who had sauntered up.

“Well, sir,” said Humphrey, taking off his hat and rubbing his brown curls, “I don’t kinder know what he is. He’s been in the navy, I think, for he’s a capital sailor; but he’s quite the gentleman, and wonderful kind to the poor people, and he lives in that little white house the other side of the cliff.”

“I can’t see any white house,” said Pratt.

“No, sir, you can’t see it, ’cause it’s the other side of the cliff; but that’s his flagstaff rigged up, as you can see, with the weathercock on it, and—Here, hi! you, sir, come out of that! Here, Juno, lass, come along.”

“Has he gone mad?” cried Pratt.

For Humphrey had suddenly set off down a steep slope towards a meadow, and went on shouting with all his might.

“No,” said Trevor, shading his eyes, “there’s a man—two men with billhooks there—labourers, I should think. Come along, or perhaps there’ll be a quarrel; and I can’t have that.”

The Lion at Home.

Sir Hampton Rea was out that morning, and very busy.

He had been round to the stables and seen the four horses that had arrived the night before, and bullied the coachman because he had said that one of them had a splinter in its leg, and that the mare meant for Miss Rea had rather a nasty look about the eye.

“You’re an ass, Thomas,” he said.

The man touched his hat, and Sir Hampton walked half across the stable-yard.

“Er-rum!” he ejaculated, half turning; and the coachman came up, obsequiously touching his hat again.

“Those horses, Thomas, were examined by a veterinary surgeon.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

“Er-rum! And I chose them and examined them myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve made a mistake, Thomas.”

“Very like, sir,” said the man. “Very sorry, sir.”

Sir Hampton did not respond, but gave a sharp glance round the very new-looking stable-yard and buildings, saw nothing to find fault about; and then, clearing his throat, went into the garden as the coachman winked at the groom, and the groom raised a wen upon his cheek by the internal application of his tongue.

“Er-rum!—Sanders!” cried the knight.

And something that had worn the aspect of a huge boa constrictor in cord trousers, crawling into a melon-frame, slowly drew itself back, stood upright, and revealed a yellow-faced man with a scarlet head and whiskers.

Perhaps it is giving too decided a colour to the freckles which covered Mr Sanders’s face to say they were yellow, and to his hair to say it was scarlet; but they certainly approached those hues, “Er-rum! Sanders, come here,” said Sir Hampton.

Sanders leisurely closed the melon-frame and raised the light a few inches with a piece of wood, and then slowly approached his master, to stop in front of him and scrape his feet upon a spade.

“Er-rum! I’m going to inspect the grounds this morning, Sanders,” said Sir Hampton.

Sanders, head gardener, nodded; for he was a man so accustomed to deal with silent objects that he seldom spoke, if he could possibly help it; but here he was obliged.

“Shall I want a spade?”

“No; certainly not.”

“Nor a barrow?”

“No!” sharply.

“Maybe ye’ll like me to bring a billhook?”

“Er-rum! No. Yes; bring a billhook.”

The gardener went slowly off to his tool-house, and returned as leisurely; Sir Hampton the while fiercely poking vegetables about with his stick—stirring up cabbages, as if angry because they did not grow—beet, for having too much top-onions, for not swelling more satisfactorily—and ending with a vicious cut at a wasp bent on a feast of nectarine beneath the great, new, red-brick wall.

Wasp did not like it. Ignorant of any doctrine concerning meum and tuum, he looked upon all fruit as pro bono publico, as far as the insect world was concerned. The nectarines might be choicely named varieties, planted by Sir Hampton’s order, after having been obtained at considerable expense—the wall having been built for their use; but fruit was fruit to the wasp, so long as it was ripe, and he resented interference. Pugnacity was crammed to excess in his small, yellow body, and prevented from bursting it by a series of strong black rings; so it was not surprising that the insect showed fight, and span round the new magistrate’s head with a fierce buzz.

“Css! Get out! Sh!” ejaculated Sir Hampton; and he struck at the wasp again and again. But the little insect was no respecter of persons. He had been insulted, and, watching his opportunity, he dashed in, and stung the knight in the tender red mark where his stiffly starched cravat frayed his neck, gave a triumphant buzz, and went over the wall like a yellow streak.

“Confound! Ugh!” ejaculated the knight; and then, seeing Sanders coming slowly back, he played Spartan, and preserved outward composure, though there was a volcano of wrath smouldering within.

He strutted off, with the gardener behind, fired a couple of shots at gardeners two and three, who were sweeping the lawn, and then entered into a general inspection of the garden.

“How—Er-rum!—how is it that bed is not in flower, Sanders?” “Done blooming,” said Sanders, gruffly.

“Done blooming, Sir Hampton!” exclaimed the knight, facing round.

“Done blooming, Sir Hampton,” said the gardener, slowly; and he looked as expressionless as a big sunflower.

“Take off that branch,” said the knight, pointing to an overhanging bough; and it was solemnly lopped off.

“Er-rum!” ejaculated the knight, when they had gone a little farther. “How is it that patch of lawn is brown?”

“Grubs,” said the gardener.

“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the knight, fiercely.

“Grubs, Sir Hampton,” said the corrected gardener.

“Ha!” said Sir Hampton, and they went a little farther.

“Those Wellingtonias are not growing, Sanders.”

“Two foot this year,” said the gardener.

“That’s very slow.”

“Fast,” said the gardener.

“Fast, Sir Hampton,” said the knight.

“Fast, Sir Hampton,” said the gardener, corrected again.

“Er-rum! Ah! This won’t do. This clump must be moved farther to the right,” said Sir Hampton, pointing to a cluster of shrubs.

“Kill ’em,” said Sanders.

“Then we’ll set more,” said the knight; and he went on to the farthest entrance of the garden, and the paths cut through the plantation, with a general desire exhibited in his every act, that as he had, so to speak, made the place and planted the grounds, it was absolutely necessary that he should have all the trees pulled up at stated intervals, to see how the roots were getting along.

There was a small iron gate at the end of the plantation walk, and this the gardener opened for his master to pass through, closing it after him, and sticking the billhook in his breast.

“Er-rum! Where are you going, Sanders?” said the knight, sharply.

“Back,” said Sanders—“’taint garden here.”

His domain extended no farther.

“Come along this moment, sir; and stop till I dismiss you.”

The knight looked purple as the gardener slowly unlatched the gate, and followed him about a quarter of a mile, to where the estate joined that of the Trevors; and here, as they neared the pastures, angry voices were heard.

“Quick, Sanders,” cried Sir Hampton—“trespassers!”

The next minute they were upon an angry group, consisting of Trevor, Pratt, Humphrey, a man with a sinister look and a mouth like a rat-trap, and a stumpy fellow, who was armed with a long plashing hook.

“Er-rum! what’s this?” exclaimed Sir Hampton, with the voice of authority.

“These men of yours, Sir Hampton,” said Humphrey, flushed and angry, “always trespassing across our ground.”

“My servants would do nothing of the sort, fellow,” said Sir Hampton.

“But they have done it, Sir Hampton,” said Humphrey. “There they are; there’s their footmarks right across the field; and they’re always at it, and breaking down the bushes.”

“Hold your tongue, Humphrey,” said Trevor. “I beg your pardon—Sir Hampton Rea, I believe?”

The wasp sting, kept back so long, now came out.

“And pray, sir, why are you trespassing on my grounds?” exclaimed the knight, furiously.

“Excuse me, I am on my own,” said Trevor.

“Your own! I never heard such insolence in my life. Who are you, sir? What the devil are you? Where do you come from?”

“Well,” said Trevor, with a red spot coming into each cheek, but speaking quite coolly, “my name is Trevor. I am the owner of Penreife, and I have lately returned from sea.”

“Then—then—go back to sea, sir, or get off my grounds; or, by gad, sir, my labourers shall kick you off.”

The men advanced menacingly; but, with a face like fire, Humphrey rolled up his cuffs.

“Humphrey! Stop; how dare you!” exclaimed Trevor, angrily.

The young keeper drew back, grinding his teeth; for the others continued to advance, and the rat-trap-mouthed man, finding Juno, the dog, smelling about him, gave the poor brute a kick, which produced a loud yelp.

“Excuse me, Sir Hampton, but—”

“Get off my grounds, sir, this instant!” roared the knight.

Wasp sting again.

“Look here,” said Pratt, “if it’s a question of boundary, any solicitor will look through the deeds, and a surveyor measure, and put it all right in—”

“Who the devil is this little cad?” exclaimed Sir Hampton.

“Cad?” cried Pratt.

“Yes, sir, cad. Oh! I thought I knew you again. Yes; you are one of that gang on the omnibus who insulted me the other day. And—and—” he stammered in his rage, turning to Trevor, “you were another of the party. Get off my grounds, sir—this instant, sir. Darley, Sanders, Kelynack—drive these fellows off!”

The three men advanced, and Sir Hampton took the general’s place in the rear, quivering still with rage and the poison of the wasp. Trevor was now flushed and angry, and Humphrey evidently ripe for any amount of assault or resistance, when Pratt stepped forward and laid his hand upon the arm of the angry knight.

Hebe.

“Stand back, sir—get off my ground, sir!” cried Sir Hampton, furiously. “Look here, men, this is—er-rum—an assault.”

“No, it is not, Sir Hampton,” said Pratt, coolly. “Look here, my good man.”

“Your good man, sir?”

“Yes,” said Pratt, quietly; and there was something in the little fellow that enforced attention. “You are, I believe, a magistrate here—for the county?”

“Yes, sir; I am, sir; and—er-rum—”

“Be cool—be cool,” said Pratt, “You called me a cad just now.”

“I did, sir; and—”

“Well, I am a barrister—of the Temple. There is my card.”

He stuck the little piece of pasteboard into the magistrate’s hand.

“Confound your card, sir! I—”

“Now—now, look here,” said Pratt, button-holing him; “don’t be cross. Let me ask you this—Is it wise of you—a justice of the peace—to set your men on, right or wrong, to break that peace?”

Sir Hampton Rea stopped short for a moment or two, and then gasped, seemed as if he would choke, and ended by snatching his coat away from Pratt’s grasp.

“Darley, Sanders, come back—go back,” he said at last. “These people shall hear from me.”

The rat-trap man stood looking evilly at the young keeper, and the Scotch gardener took a pinch of snuff. Then they slowly followed their master, and the coast was clear.

“You’re sure, I suppose, about this tongue of land?” said Pratt. “By Jove! what a rage, though, the old boy was in.”

“Sure? yes—oh yes,” said Trevor. “Wasn’t it here that they sunk the shaft for the copper mine, Humphrey?”

“Yes, sir, twenty yards farther on, under that clump. It’s ’most filled up, though, now.”

“To be sure, I recollect the spot well enough now. But this is a bad job, Franky,” he continued, in an undertone. “I wanted to be on the best of terms with my neighbours.”

“’Specially that neighbour,” said Pratt, meaningly.

“With all my neighbours,” said Trevor.

“You’ve made a nice beginning, then,” said Pratt.

“If there is any fresh upset, Humphrey, let me know; but don’t pick a quarrel,” said Trevor. “I shall not go any farther to-day.”

“Very well, sir,” said the keeper; and then in an undertone, as he stooped and patted the dog, “Kick you, would he, Juno, lass? Never mind, then, he shall have it back some day.”

The dog whined and leaped up at him, as he rose again, and looked after his master.

“Well, he’s grown into a fine, bold-speaking gentleman,” he said to himself; “but I should have liked it better if he’d tackled to and helped me to thrash them two ill-looking blackguards.”

Meanwhile Trevor and his old schoolfellow had been walking sharply back towards the house, where they were evidently being watched for by the old butler, Lloyd—the remains of a fine-looking man, for he was bent now, though his eyes were clear and bright.

“I saw you coming across the park, Master Dick,” he said, his face shining with pleasure. “You’ll have a bit of lunch now, won’t you?”

“Early yet, isn’t it?” said Pratt.

“I don’t think so, sir,” said the old butler, austerely. “I am sure Master Dick requires something after his long walk.”

“Yes, yes—that he does,” said a rather shrill voice; and an active, grey-haired woman of about fifty came bustling out. She was very primly dressed in black silk, with white muslin kerchief, white holland apron, in whose pockets her hands rested; and her grey hair was carefully smoothed back beneath her plain white muslin cap.

“No, no; it’s only twelve o’clock, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, good-humouredly. “I lunch at one.”

“You take my advice, Master Dick, and have it now,” said the butler.

“Yes, Lloyd, have it brought in, and ask Master Dick if he’ll have some of the old claret,” said the woman.

“My dear Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, smiling, “this is very kind of you—of you both—but I’m not ready for lunch yet. You can both go now. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”

He led the way into his handsomely furnished study, the beau ideal of a comfortable room for a man with a mingling of literary and sporting tastes.

“Here, let’s sit down and have a cigar,” he said, pushing a great leather-covered chair to his friend; “it will smooth us down after our encounter.”

“No; I’ll fill my pipe,” said Pratt, suiting the action to the word, and lighting up, to send big clouds of smoke through the large room.

“You mustn’t take any notice of the old butler and housekeeper, Frank,” said Trevor, after a pause.

“Don’t mean to.”

“You see, they’ve had their own way here since I was a child.”

“And now they don’t like to give it up?”

“I suppose not. But they mean well. They were always, I can remember, most affectionate to me.”

“Yes; they seem to like Master Dick.”

“Pish! yes, of course—their way. Sounds stupid, though, Franky; but you can’t wonder at it.”

“I don’t,” said Pratt. “But I should put my foot down, I think.”

“That I most decidedly shall, and before Van and the little Baronet come down.”

“Oh, by Jove!” said Pratt, starting, “why those two fellows are coming to-morrow.”

“Yes; they’ll be here about five.”

“And what in the world are you going to do with them?”

“Oh, there’s plenty to do—billiards, and cards, and smoking indoors; fishing and yachting out of doors.”

“Yes,” said Pratt, with a sigh; “but they’ll both be murmuring after the flesh-pots of Pall Mall. You’ll have your hands pretty full.”

“Never fear,” said Trevor; “I shall be able to entertain them. How strange it all seems, though—such a little while since we were boys at Eton, and now Van a perfect exquisite.”

“Landells an imperfect ditto.”

“You a barrister.”

“Yes,” said Pratt, “very barrister, indeed; and you altered into a tawny tar, regularly disguised by Nature.”

Here there was a tap at the door. “Come in,” said Trevor, who was sitting in a low, big-backed chair. And then, as the door opened, “Who is it?”

“Hebe!” said Pratt, softly.

“Eh?” said Trevor.

“If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd said I was to bring this in,” said a pleasant little voice; and Trevor swung himself round in his chair, to gaze upon a pretty little very round-faced girl of about seventeen or eighteen, with smooth brown hair, clear white complexion, rather large eyes, ruddy lips, and a face like fire with confusion. There were the faint traces, too, of tears lately wiped from her eyes, and her pleasant little voice had a plaintive ring in it as, in answer to Trevor’s “Eh?” and wondering stare, she repeated her words—

“If you please, sir, Mrs Lloyd said I was to bring this in.”

“And pray what is this?” said Trevor, glancing at the salver the girl carried, bearing a good-sized silver flagon, with chased lid, and a snowy napkin placed through the handle.

“If you please, sir, it’s a pint of new milk beat up with three eggs, three glasses of sherry, and some lump sugar,” said the girl.

“And who’s it for?” said Trevor.

“For you and the gentleman, sir; Mrs Lloyd said the sea air must have made you faint.”

“Well,” said Trevor, “hand it to Mr Pratt, there.”

The girl bore the flagon to Pratt, who took it, but emitted such a volume of strong tobacco smoke that the girl sneezed, and choked, and then looked more scarlet and confused than ever.

“I beg your pardon,” said Pratt; and then he raised the flagon to his lips, and took a long draught, wiping the brim afterwards with the napkin. “Splendid, old fellow!” he said. “Take it to—your master.”

“And pray who may you be, my dear?” said Trevor, looking critically at the girl, but relieving her from his gaze the next moment, in compassion for her confusion.

“If you please, sir, I’m Aunt Lloyd’s niece,” said the girl.

“And are you anything here—housemaid, or—?”

“Oh no, sir, if you please. I am here on a long visit to my aunt; and she said I was to help her.”

“Well,” said Trevor, setting down the flagon, “tell her the milk was excellent; but she is not to send anything in again without I ring for it. Well, what’s the matter?”

The girl was looking in a pitiful way at him, and she remained silent for a few moments, when he spoke again.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Must—must I tell her that, sir?”

“Yes. Why not?” said Trevor.

“Because—because, if you please, sir, I...”

The girl did not finish, but uttered a sob, and ran out of the room.

“Cornwall promises to be a queer place,” said Pratt; “but that stuff was heavenly—did you finish it, Dick?”

“Not quite, I think,” said Trevor.

“And you sent it away. Oh, Dick!”

The little maid had hardly got outside the door, when Mrs Lloyd came across the hall, followed at a short distance by the butler, rubbing his hands, smiling feebly, and looking anxious.

“Crying?” said Mrs Lloyd, sharply. “You little goose!”

“I—I—couldn’t help it, aunt, indeed,” sobbed the girl.

“’Sh! not a sound,” said Mrs Lloyd, sharply; and she caught the girl by the arm. “Did he drink the milk?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“Did that other gentleman take any?”

“Yes, aunt—a lot.”

“As if he couldn’t come home without bringing such a pack with him. Now come into my room, and I’ll talk to you, madam. Lloyd, take that waiter.”

She led the way into the housekeeper’s room, as her husband obediently bore off the flagon to his pantry; and then, shutting the door, she took her seat in a stiff, horse-hair-covered chair, looking as hard and prim as the presses and cupboards around.

“Now listen to me,” she said, harshly.

“Yes, aunt.”

“I’m not going to boast; but what have I done for you?”

“Paid for my schooling, aunt, and kept me three years.”

“Where would you have been if it hadn’t been for me?”

“Living with Aunt Price at Caerwmlych.”

“Starving with her, you mean, when she can hardly keep herself,” said Mrs Lloyd, sharply. “Now, look here, Polly, I’ve taken you from a life of misery to make you well off and happy; and I will be minded. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“Then do as I tell you exactly. Do you hear?”

“I’ll try, aunt.”

“Try? You must. Now, then: Did he speak to you?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“What did he say? Come, speak, child!”

“He asked me who I was, aunt; and what I had come for.”

“Of course, you silly little thing. There, no more tears. It’s dreadful treatment, isn’t it, to make you go in and attend to him a little?”

“Please, aunt, I don’t mind that,” said the girl.

“No, I should think not, indeed,” said Mrs Lloyd. “He’s an ogre to look at, isn’t he?”

“No, aunt, I think he’s a fine, handsome man.”

“Not a finer, nor a handsomer, nor a nicer in all Cornwall: and you ought to be fine and pleased to be in the house. And now look here, madam—no more tears, if you please.”

“No, aunt.”

“And you’re always to be nicely dressed, and do your hair well.”

“Yes, aunt.”

“And keep yourself to yourself, madam. Recollect, please, that you’re my niece, staying in the house, and not one of the servants.”

“Yes, aunt.”

The door opened, and the butler put in his head.

“It’s lunch-time now, and I am having the things taken in again.”

“That’s quite right.”

“Do you want to come?”

“Not now; only Mary shall bring in the vegetables.”

“Hadn’t William better help?” said the butler.

“No, not to-day. There will be a pack more people here to-morrow, and she can’t come then. Here, child, take these clean napkins and be ready to carry them into the dining-room.”

“But my face, aunt—won’t they see?”

“What—that you have been crying?” said the housekeeper, critically. “No; they won’t. Stop here a minute while I go out into the hall.”

The girl, from being scarlet, was now pale, but quite a little “rustic beauty” all the same; and she stood by the linen press looking very troubled, while Mrs Lloyd went back into the hall, where Trevor had stepped out to speak to the butler.

“Oh, there you are, Mrs Lloyd,” he said, in a quiet, decided tone of voice. “I was just speaking to Lloyd about one or two little matters. Of course, I feel the highest respect for both you and your worthy husband.”

“Thank you, Master Dick,” said the housekeeper, stiffly.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Trevor. “And of course you can’t help looking upon me as the boy you were almost father and mother to at one time.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs Lloyd, stiffly; “but you don’t mean to turn us away now you have grown a man?”

“God forbid!” said Trevor, earnestly. “While I live, this is your home, and I shall interfere but little with you in the conduct of the house. But I take this opportunity of saying that I must ask of you both to remember—old friends as well as old servants of the family—that I have now come back to take my position here as the master of Penreife, and that, in speaking to me before visitors, ‘Master Dick’ sounds rather childish. That will do, Mrs Lloyd. Yes, Lloyd, you can bring in some of the claret.”

He walked into the dining-room, the quiet, calm man of the world, with enough dignity and self-assertion to show the housekeeper that the days of her rule had departed for ever.

“That’s going to sea, that is,” she muttered. “That’s being used to order people about, and being an officer. But we shall see, Master Dick—we shall see!”

And with a quick, spasmodic twitching of her hands as she smoothed down her apron, she went back muttering to her own room.

Mishaps.

Lunch at Tolcarne that day was not one of the most pleasant of meals. Sir Hampton had come in, looking purple instead of red with his walk, to pause at the hall door and dismiss Sanders, the gardener, who stood mopping his face.

“Er-rum! Look here, Sanders!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir,” said Sanders.

“Yes, Sir Hampton, man!”

“Yes, Sir Hampton,” said Sanders, slowly and impressively, as if he were trying to fix the formula in his mind.

“I’ll see you in the morning about a new bed on the lawn, and—er-rum—don’t let this affair be talked about.”

“No, sir—Hampton,” said Sanders.

He went heavily down the new path, while his master stood apparently loading himself—that is to say, he thrust what seemed to be a white gun-wad into his mouth, before turning into the hall, and letting off a tremendous “Er-rum,” which echoed through the house. The wad, however, was only a digestive tablet, an antidote to the heartburn, from which Sir Hampton suffered; and he strode into the dining-room, where the family was already assembled for luncheon.

“Oh, dad—papa,” cried Fin, “such news for you.”

“Don’t worry your papa, my dear,” said Miss Matilda, smoothing her handkerchief, which, from being sat upon, resembled a cambric cake; “wait till he has had some refreshment. He is tired. Hampton, will you take a cutlet?”

“Don’t, pa. Have some chicken pie.”

“Shall I send you a poached egg, dear?” said Lady Rea, who was in difficulties with the mustard-pot, the protruding spoon of which had entangled itself with her open lace sleeve, and the yellow condiment was flowing over the table.

“No,” said Sir Hampton, gruffly.

“Tut, tut, tut,” said Lady Rea, making matters worse by trying to scrape up the mustard with a spoon.

“Hadn’t you better let Edward do that, dear?” said Miss Matilda, with a pained expression of countenance, as she played pat-a-cake once more with her handkerchief.

“They do make the mustard so horribly thin,” said Lady Rea. “Finetta, give papa some of the pie.”

Fin looked mischievously across at her sister, and then cut a large portion of the patty, enough to have called forth an angry remonstrance at another time; but though Miss Matilda looked perfectly horrified, Sir Hampton was too angry and absorbed to notice it; he only went on eating.

“Well, Finetta, dear,” said Lady Rea, “what’s the grand news?”

“Seen the sailor, ma, dear; been introduced to him. Such a nice fellow.”

“Seen whom?” said Lady Rea, making a last scrape at the mustardy cloth.

“Mr Trevor, ma; met him at old Mrs Trelyan’s. Such fun.”

“My dear Finetta,” began Miss Matilda; but a shot fired by Sir Hampton stopped her in dismay.

“Er-rum—what’s that?” he asked. “Have you met that person?”

“What person, papa?” said Finetta. “That—that Penreife man—that Trevor, or whatever his name is?”

“Yes, pa, we met him this morning; and he’s the same—”

“Er-rum, I know!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, upsetting a carafe in his excitement, and making Miss Matilda start back to save her silk. “I ought to have bought Penreife—it’s one of those persons we saw—I know; I met him this morning—trespass—an insulting—ugh! ugh! ugh!”

“Oh, pa!” cried Finetta, “you shouldn’t get in a passion with your mouth full; and so much pepper as there is in that pie.”

For Sir Hampton had begun to cough furiously, his face growing deeper in tint, and his eyes protruding, so alarming Lady Rea that she bustled round the table and began to hammer his back, while Miss Matilda offered a glass of water.

“Ugh! ugh! ugh! Sit down—sit down!” gasped Sir Hampton. “I—er-rum—I forbid all fixture communication with that—that fellow. If he calls here, I’ll have the door shut in his face. Insulted me grossly this morning, on my own grounds, and a dirty little jackanapes with him talked to me in such a way as I was never spoken to before.”

“Oh, Tiny, it’s the horrid little man,” whispered Fin.

“Why, my dear Hampy, whatever is it all about?” said Lady Rea. “There, do drink some water, and get cool.”

Sir Hampton glanced at his wife and sister, and poured himself out half a tumbler of sherry, which he drained, and then began to cough once more.

“Eat a bit of bread, dear,” said Lady Rea. “Quick, you won’t mind mine—I haven’t touched it.”

Saying which she held a piece out to him on a fork.

“Frances!” ejaculated Miss Matilda.

“Ugh! Any one would think I was a bear upon a pole,” coughed Sir Hampton; and he wiped his eyes as he grew better.

“But, Hampy, dear,” said Lady Rea, “it will be so strange. Suppose Mr Trevor calls?”

“Tell the servants to shut the door in his face,” growled Sir Hampton. “An insulting puppy!”

“Oh, pa, dear, don’t be so cross,” said Fin. “Take us out for a drive this afternoon, and let’s see if the box has come from Mudie’s.”

“Disgraceful—and on one’s own land, too,” growled Sir Hampton, not heeding his daughter, but still muttering thunder.

“But you will take us, papa?” said Fin, leaning on his shoulder.

“Such insolence!” muttered Sir Hampton.

“Was he trespassing, Hampton?” said Miss Matilda.

“Yes, and a pack of fellows along with him,” cried Sir Hampton, firing up once more.

“You’ll take us out, pa, dear?” said Fin, getting her cheek against his.

“No, no! well, there, yes,” said Sir Hampton; and then, looking like a half-mollified bull, he submitted to having his cheeks patted, and his stiff cravat untied and retied by the busy fingers of his pet child.

“In half an hour, dad?”

“Yes, yes; only don’t bother. Er-rum!” he ejaculated, as Fin flew to the bell, “tell them to bring round the waggonette.”

Sir Hampton rose and left the room, firing a shot as he crossed the hall. Then the footman came in to receive his orders, and directly after Lady Rea looked admiringly across at her daughter.

“Ah, Fin, my dear, I wish I could manage your papa as you do.”

“Really, Frances,” said Miss Matilda, bridling up, “I don’t think that is a proper way for you to speak respecting a parent to a child.”

Poor downright Lady Rea looked troubled and distressed.

“Really, Matty,” she began.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Fin, coming to the rescue. “It’s because you don’t understand, Aunt Matty; only married people do. Why don’t you marry Mr Mervyn?”

Miss Matilda rose from her chair, smoothed her skirts, gazed in utter astonishment at her niece, and marched out of the room.

“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.

“You shouldn’t do it, my dear,” said Lady Rea, in whose gentle eyes the tears were gathering.

“I should!” said Fin, stamping her foot and colouring with passion. “I won’t stand here and hear my dear mother snubbed in that way by any one but papa; and if Aunt Matty only dares to do such a thing again, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll say something horrid.”

The next moment she had flung her impetuous little self into Lady Rea’s arms, and was sobbing passionately; but only to jerk herself free, and wipe her eyes directly in a snatchy fashion.

“It’s so vexatious, too, for papa to turn like that, when Mr Trevor’s one of the nicest, dearest, handsomest fellows you ever saw. Isn’t he, Tiny?”

“I thought him very pleasing and gentlemanly,” said Tiny, flushing slightly.

“She thought ever so much more of him than that, I know, ma,” said Fin, nodding her head. “But isn’t it vexatious, mamma, dear?”

“It’ll all come right, my dear,” said Lady Rea, kissing her child fondly. “There, now, go and get ready, or papa will be cross.”

Fin felt ready to say “I don’t care,” so rebellious was the spirit that invested her that day; but she set her teeth, and ran to the door.

“You’re coming, mamma?”

“No, my dear, Tiny will go with you. I shall stay in this afternoon.”

“And leave Aunt Matty to say disagreeable things to you. Then I shall stay, too.”

“No, no, dear, go—to please me,” said Lady Rea; and the girl ran off.

The waggonette was round, and Sir Hampton was drawing on his gloves, the image of punctuality, when Fin came rushing down, closely followed by her sister, and the party started for the little station town, Saint Kitt’s, passing on the road another handsome new waggonette, with a fine, well-paced pair of horses.

“I wonder whose turn-out that is?” said Sir Hampton. “Strange thing that everybody gets better horses than I do.”

“I know whose it is,” said Fin, demurely.

“Whose?” said Sir Hampton.

“Daren’t say,” replied Fin. “Ask Edward. Edward!” she cried, “whose carriage is that?”

“Think it’s Mr Trevor’s, ma’am,” said the footman, touching his hat.

“Er-rum,” ejaculated Sir Hampton, and Fin nudged her sister and made her colour.

The box was at the station, and it was put in the waggonette by a tall porter, whom Fin spoke of to her sister as the signal post, and then she proposed that they should wait and see if anything would come by the train due in a few minutes.

Now, Sir Hampton expected something by that train, but he had been so crossed that day, and was in such a contrary mood, that he exclaimed—

“Er-rum, absurd; certainly not. Drive back at once.”

Fin made a grimace at her sister, who replied with a look of remonstrance; Sir Hampton sat back and frowned at the landscape, as if he thought it too green; and away they bowled just as the whistle of the engine was heard in the distance.

Something has been said before about the Cornish lanes, and the way in which the granite bones of Mother Nature peer out and form buttresses to the banks, huge pillars, and mighty corners. The lane they were traversing on their way back was not one of the least rugged, though the road was good; and they had gone at a pretty sharp trot for about a mile, when a cart came rattling along just at a turn of the road where it was narrow; and in making way—click! the box of one wheel caught against a granite buttress pushed forth from the bank, the wheel wriggled about, and fifty Yards farther came off and went trundling down the hill—the coachman fortunately pulling his horses up short, so that the waggonette sidled over against the ferny bank, and no one was hurt.

“Such abominable driving,” exclaimed Sir Hampton.

“Very sorry, sir,” said the coachman.

“Oh, pa, it was those other people’s fault. I saw it all,” said Fin.

The coachman gave her a grateful look, and the footman helped all to alight.

Five minutes’ inspection showed that the wheel was so much injured that it would take time to repair, and there was nothing for it but to send to the little town to get assistance.

“Shall I send Edward with one horse, Sir Hampton, and ride the other home and fetch the barouche.”

“Yes—no—yes,” said Sir Hampton, waking to the fact that they were yet eight miles from home, and he had done quite as much walking as he cared for in one day.

At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and the waggonette they had before passed came up, evidently from the station, with two gentlemen inside, the coachman pulling up on seeing that there was an accident, while the gentlemen leaped out.

“I trust,” said the elder, raising his hat, “that no one is hurt.”

“Er-rum! none; no one,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly.

“What misfortune!” said the younger, fixing his glass in his eye, and looking in a puzzled way at the ladies. “Under circumstances, Vanleigh?”

“Yes, of course,” said the other, and then raising his hat to the ladies, “as my friend here observes. You will allow me to place the carriage at your disposal?”

Sir Hampton looked at the speaker, then at the carriage, then at his own. That was Trevor’s carriage, but these were strangers, and he was not obliged to know. His legs ached; it was a long while to wait; and he was still pondering when the first speaker said—

“Allow me,” and offered his arm to Tiny, who glanced at her father, and seeing no commands against the act, suffered herself to be led to the whole waggonette, the other stranger offering his arm to Fin, who just touched it, and then leapt in beside her sister.

“Will you follow, Mr—Mr—?”

“Er-rum! Sir Hampton Rea, at your service, gentlemen,” said the knight, stiffly.

“I beg pardon, Sir Hampton—strangers, you see. My friend here is Sir Felix Landells; my name is Vanleigh—Captain Vanleigh.”

“Guards,” said Sir Felix, in the midst of a good deal of formal bowing; and then, all being seated, the waggonette drove off, Sir Hampton, in the conversation which ensued, being most careful to avoid any reference to the destination of his new friends, merely requesting to be set down at the end of the lane leading to Tolcarne, the party separating amidst a profusion of bows.

“What a pair of dandies!” said Fin.

“A most refined gentleman that Captain Vanleigh,” said Sir Hampton.

“What did you think of the other one, dad?” said Fin.

“Aristocrat. Er-rum! aristocrat,” said Sir Hampton. “Blue blood there, for a certainty. I hope they’ll call. By the way, Tiny, I thought you unnecessarily cold and formal.”

“Did you, papa?” said Tiny. “Indeed, I did not mean to be so.”

Here they reached the hall, and the girls went to their room.

“Dad’s hooked,” said Fin, throwing herself into a chair. “Tiny, that dandy would come to grief if I knew him long. I should feel obliged to singe his horrid little sticky mustachios; and as for the other—oh, how I could snub him if he looked and talked at me as he did at you.”

“I sincerely hope,” said Tiny, “that we shall never see them again.”

Polly’s troubles.

“By the way, Pratt,” said Trevor, as they were strolling through the grounds, “what aged man should you take Vanleigh to be?”

“Close upon forty,” said Pratt; “but he takes such care of himself, and dresses so young, that he keeps off the assaults of old Father Time.”

“He can’t be so old as that,” said Trevor, thoughtfully; “and yet he must begetting on. He was much older than we were, you know, in the old days.”

“Yes,” said Pratt; “bless him, I love Van dearly. I suppose they’ll be here soon. H’m!”

“Eh?” said Trevor.

“I said H’m!” replied Pratt.

“Yes, I know,” said Trevor, laughing; “but what does H’m mean?”

“Shall I make mischief, or shan’t I? Well, I don’t know that it would be making mischief, for it seems quite natural.”

“My dear Frank, don’t play the Sphinx, please, for I’m one of the most dense men under the sun. Now, then, speak out.”

“Only thinking, and putting that and that together,” said Pratt, relighting his cigar. “Well?”

“Well—handsome young bailiff seen in the copse yonder; pretty girl is seen going rather hurriedly along path leading to copse; and elderly lady who holds post of housekeeper, and who, by the way, seems to know it, is seen to peer through window, and then to come to door, as if in search of pretty girl. I say only, what does it mean?”

“Means a bit of sweethearting, apparently,” said Trevor, laughing. “Well, I suppose it’s all right!”

“Not if the old lady catches them, perhaps; so let’s go and talk to the old lady.”

Trevor shrugged his shoulders, and the couple walked back towards the house, where Mrs Lloyd was standing, evidently fidgeted about something or another.

“I tell you she must have gone out,” she was saying as they came up.

But just at that moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and the waggonette drew up at the door with Vanleigh and Landells.

“Jove!” said the latter, “what out-of-the-way place, Trevor. Thought never get here.”

A sharp sniff drew his attention to Mrs Lloyd, who stood with her husband just inside the door.

“Not bad,” said Vanleigh, superciliously.

“Ah, you’ll like it when you’ve been down a day or two,” said Trevor. “I’m heartily glad to see you both.”

“Thanks,” said Vanleigh, as his host led the way into the hall. “Ah, quite mediaeval.”

“Mrs Lloyd, you’ve got the oak room ready for Captain Vanleigh?” said Trevor.

“No, Master Dick, I’ve ordered the blue room for him.”

Trevor’s brow clouded, but he only bit his lip.

“Then you’ve arranged that Sir Felix shall have the oak room?”

“No, Master—sir,” she said, correcting herself in a very stately way, “Sir Felix will sleep in the chintz chamber.”

Trevor flushed, but he turned it off lightly.

“These are our old butler and housekeeper, Vanleigh,” he said. “Mrs Lloyd there was almost like a mother to me as a child.”

“Indeed,” said Vanleigh, superciliously; and Sir Felix fixed his glass and had a good stare at the old lady, who looked every whit the mistress of the house.

“Grey mare?” he said, in a whisper.

“Old favoured servants,” said Trevor, in return; and the young men walked into the drawing-room.

“Don’t stand staring there,” said Mrs Lloyd, fiercely, to the footman; “take up these portmantees.”

The man gave her a surly look.

“He’ll go to ruin, that he will,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a voice of suppressed anger, to her husband, as soon as they were alone; “and there you stand without a word to say for yourself.”

“Well, what can I do, my dear?” said Lloyd, feebly.

“Nothing—nothing; what you have always done—nothing. But I’ll stop it soon. I won’t be made quite a nonentity of. Where’s that girl? Go and look for her. Or, no, you must see to the dinner; and mind this, Lloyd—she’s to be kept out of sight while these fine sparks are here. I don’t like the looks of that dark fellow at all.”

Mrs Lloyd hurried away to meet Polly, just about to enter the housekeeper’s room.

“And pray, where have you been, madam?”

“Only out in the grounds, aunt—it was so fine,” was the reply.

Mrs Lloyd looked at her till a red glow overspread the girl’s face.

“Look here,” said Mrs Lloyd, catching her by one hand; “you are not a fool, Polly. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

The girl looked up at her with a shiver, and then her eyes fell.

“Don’t you try to thwart me, mind, or you’ll be sorry for it to the last day of your life. Now, look here, do you mind me?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“You are to keep in the housekeeper’s room here till those friends of Master Dick’s are gone. And don’t you try to deceive me, because I can read that pink and white face of yours like a book.”

Mrs Lloyd flung the little maiden’s hand away from her, walked to a drawer, and brought out some new linen, which she set the girl to sew, while she went about the house seeing to the arrangements for her master’s guests.

As a matter of course, little Polly had “a good cry,” making several damp places on the new linen; and then, with a sob, she wished herself safe back at her old aunt’s in the Welsh mountains, where she was poor, but happy and free as the goats.

“I’d go to-morrow if I could,” she sobbed, and then the needle hand fell upon the stiff, hard work, and she closed her wet eyes till a faint smile came across her face like a little ray of sunshine; and she whispered softly to herself, as if it were a great secret, “No, I don’t think I would.”

Mrs Jenkles’s Morning Call.

“Been waiting, old lady?” said Sam Jenkles, throwing open the apron of the cab as he reached his wife’s side.

“Not a minute, Sam; but why weren’t you driving? Is he restive?”

“Restive!” said Sam; “I only wish he was. I’d give ’arf a sovrin’ to see ’im bolt.”

“And suppose I was in the cab!” said Mrs Jenkles.

“There, don’t you be alarmed. Jump in. Ratty wouldn’t run away with you inside, my dear—nor any one else.”

Sam rattled the apron down, hopped on to his perch, chirruped to Ratty, and, for a wonder, he went decently out on to Pentonville Hill, past the Angel, along Upper Street, and round by the Cock at Highbury.

“What do you think of that, old lady?” said Sam, opening his little lid to peer down at his wife. “Comfortable?”

“Comfortable—yes,” said Mrs Jenkles, looking up and beaming. “And you said he wouldn’t go.”

“He knows as you’re here,” said Sam; “and that’s his aggrawating nature. He’s a-selling me.”

“Selling you, Sam?”

“Yes; a-making out as I grumbles without cause. Sit fast; I’ll bowl yer up there in no time.”

“No, Sam, don’t—pray, don’t go fast!” said his wife, in alarm.

“You sit still; it’s all right, I tell yer. Good wives is scarce, Sally, so you won’t be spilled.”

Only half convinced, Mrs Jenkles held on very tightly by the sides of the cab, till, well up now in the geography of the place, Sam ran round by the better road, and drew up at B. Sturt’s grocery warehouse.

“No,” said Sam, as Mrs Jenkles made for the shop; “side door, and ring once.”

As he spoke, Barney’s ill-looking face appeared at the door; and as Mrs Jenkles went and rang—

“Mornin’,” said Sam.

Barney scowled, and blew a cloud of tobacco at him.

“Keb, sir?” said Sam, mounting to his perch.

Barney growled, and then spat.

“Run yer up to town in no time. Cheap trains to S’burban ’andicap,” said Sam, grinning.

But Barney turned his back as the cab drove off, and asked his wife—“What, them people wanted with kebs now?”

Mrs Lane admitted her visitor, and, in a hesitating way, asked her upstairs, where her daughter, looking very pale, was seated by the window, working for very life at the hard, blue cloth garments upon which they were engaged.

The girl rose as Mrs Jenkles entered, and bent towards her, flushing slightly beneath the scrutinising gaze to which she was subjected.

At the same time, Mrs Jenkles made a short bob, and then another to Mrs Lane, who placed a chair for her, which she declined to take.

“It was my husband, ma’am,” said Mrs Jenkles, “who came up to you the other day.”

“Yes,” said Mrs Lane. “You have come from him. He brought you to-day?”

“I said I should come and see you,” said Mrs Jenkles, looking sharply from one to the other.

“And he told you?” said Mrs Lane, hesitatingly.

“Yes; my husband tells me everything,” said Mrs Jenkles, stiffly.

“Then you know how good he was to mamma?” said the girl, coming forward.

“My husband’s one of the best men under the sun, Miss; only he has his weaknesses.”

“Yes, it was weak,” said Mrs Lane, with a touch of bitterness in her voice—“and to such strangers.”

“If you mean about the money, ma’am,” said Mrs Jenkles, in the same uncompromising manner, “I don’t; I meant something else.”

Mrs Lane directed an imploring look at her daughter, and the girl hastily took up her work, as did her mother, and stitched away.

“That may have been weak, and it may not,” said Mrs Jenkles, who took in everything. “It all depends.”

“It was a most generous act,” said Mrs Lane, in a low, pained voice, “and will bear its fruit. But you will sit down?”

Mrs Jenkles seated herself on the very edge of her chair, bolt upright, while Mrs Lane drew out a well-worn purse, took from it half a sovereign, and laid it upon the table.

“I am ashamed to offer you so little of it back,” said Mrs Lane, “but it was all we could get together in so short a time. You shall have the rest—as we can make it up.”

“Thanky,” said Mrs Jenkles, shortly; but without attempting to touch the coin.

There was a pause then, only broken by that weary sound of hard stitching, which tells of sore fingers and aching eyes.