santness afloat to make landsmen glad to get ashore, and this dissipated in a slight measure their vexation at having failed in their purpose. Still Mountclere loudly cursed their confidence in that treacherously short route, and Sol abused the unknown Sandbourne man who had brought the news of the steamer's arrival to them at the junction. The only course left open to them now, short of giving up the undertaking, was to go by the road along the shore, which, curving round the various little creeks and inland seas between their present position and Knollsea, was of no less length than forty miles. There was no train back to the junction till the next morning, and Sol's proposition, that they should drive to the junction in hope of meeting the mail-train, was overruled by Mountclere.

"We will have nothing more to do with chance," he said. "We may miss the train, and then we shall have gone out of the way again for nothing. More than that, the down mail does not stop till it gets several miles beyond the nearest station for Knollsea; so it is hopeless."

"If there had only been a telegraph to the confounded place." "Telegraph-we might as well telegraph to the devil as to an old booby and a d I very much question if we shall do anything in the matter, even if we get there. But I suppose we had better go on now."

scheming young

"You can do as you like. I shall go on, if I have to walk every step o't."

"That's not necessary. I think the best posting-house at this end of the town is Tempett's-we must knock them up at once. Which will you do attempt supper here, or break the back of our journey first, and get on to Anglebury? We may rest an hour or two there, unless you feel really in want of a meal."

"No. I'll leave eating to merrier men, who have no sister in the hands of a d old Philistine."

"Very well," said Mountclere. "We'll go on at once."

An additional half hour elapsed before they were fairly started, the lateness and abruptness of their arrival causing delay in getting a conveyance ready: the tempestuous night had apparently driven the whole town, gentle and simple, early to their beds. And when at length the travellers were on their way the aspect of the weather grew yet more forbidding. The rain came down unmercifully, the booming wind caught it, bore it across the country, whizzed it against the carriage like a sower sowing his seed. It was precisely such weather, and almost at the same season, as when Picotee traversed the same moor stricken with her great disappointment at not meeting Christopher Julian.

Farther on for several miles the drive lay through an open heath, dotted occasionally with fir plantations, the trees of which told the tale of their species without help from outline or colour; they spoke in those melancholy moans and sobs which give to their sound a solemn sadness surpassing even that of the sea. From each carriage-lamp the long rays

stretched like feelers into the air, and somewhat cheered the way, until the insidious damp that pervaded all things above, around, and under- . neath, overpowered one of them, and rendered every attempt to rekindle it ineffectual. Even had the two men's dislike to each other's society been less, the general din of the night would have prevented much talking; as it was, they sat in a rigid reticence that was almost a third personality. The roads were laid hereabouts with a light sandy gravel, which, though not clogging, was soft aud friable. It speedily became saturated, and the wheels ground heavily and deeply into its substance.

At length, after overpassing from fifteen to twenty miles of these eternal heaths under the eternally drumming storm, they could discern eyelets of light winking to them out of the distance from under a nebulous brow of pale haze. They were looking on the little town of Flatmouth. Soon after this cross-roads were reached, one of which, at right angles to their present direction, led down on the left to that place. Here the man stopped, and informed them that the horses would be able to go but a mile or two farther.

"Very well, we must have others that can," said Mountclere. our way lie through the town?"

"Does

"No, sir-unless we go there to change horses, which I thought you would wish to do. The direct road is straight on. Flatmouth lies about two miles down there on the left. If we keep straight on, we shall come to no place for six or seven miles, and then only to Bullton." "What's Bullton like?"

"A trumpery small bit of a village."

"Still, I think we had better push on," said Sol. "I am against going out of our way to get into Flatmouth."

"So am I," rejoined Mountclere.

"I know a wheelwright in Bullton," continued Sol, "and he keeps a beer-house. We could rest there, and have a bit of sommat in the shape of victuals, and then get on to Anglebury. Perhaps the rain may hold up by that time. Anything's better than going out of our way." "Yes. And the horses can last out to that place," said Mountclere. "Up and on again, my man."

Still the everlasting heath, the the barrows upon their round

On they went towards Bullton. black hills bulging against the sky, summits like warts on a swarthy skin. The storm blew huskily over bushes of heather and furze that it was unable materially to disturb, and the travellers proceeded as before. But the horses now were far from

fresh, and the time spent in reaching the next village was quite half as long as that taken up by the previous heavy portion of the drive. When they entered Bullton it was about three.

"Now, where's the inn?" said Mountclere, yawning.

"Just on the knap," Sol answered. "'Tis a little small place, and

we must do as well as we can."

They pulied up before a cottage, upon the whitewashed front of

which could be seen a square board representing the sign. After an infinite labour of rapping and shouting, a casement opened overhead, and a woman's voice enquired what was the matter. Sol explained, when she told them that her husband was away from home, and that they could not come in.

Sol was known to her, and he mentioned his name; but the woman only began to abuse him. "Come, publican, you'd better let us in, or we'll have the law for't," rejoined Sol, with more spirit. "You don't dare to keep nobility waiting like this."

"Nobility!"

"My mate hev the title of Honourable, whether or no; so let's have none of your slack," said Sol.

"Don't be a fool, young chopstick," exclaimed Mountclere. "Get the door opened."

"I will-in my own way," said Sol, testily. "You mustn't mind my trading upon your quality, as 'tis a case of necessity. This is a woman nothing will bring to reason but an appeal to the higher powers. If every man of title was as useful as you are to-night, sir, I'd never pray for their downfall again as long as I live."

"How singular!"

"There's never a bit of rubbish that won't come in use if you keep it seven years."

"If my utility depends upon keeping you company, may I go to h- for lacking every atom of the virtue."

"Hear, hear. But it hardly is becoming in me to answer up to a man so much older than I, or I would say more. here for the present, sir, and get indoors?",

"Do what you will, in heaven's name."

Suppose we draw a line

agreeing to admit

A few more words to the woman resulted in her them if they would attend to themselves afterwards. This Sol promised, and the key of the door was let down to them from the bed-room window by a string. When they had entered, Sol, who knew the house well, busied himself in lighting a fire, the driver going off with a lantern to the fuel-house, where he found standing-room for the two horses. Mountclere walked up and down the kitchen, mumbling words of disgust at the situation, the few of this kind that he let out being just enough to show what a fearfully large number he kept in.

66

A-calling up people at this time of morning!" the woman exclaimed occasionally down the stairs. "But folks show no mercy upon their flesh and blood-not one bit or mite."

"Only tell me

"Now never be stomachy, my good soul," cried Sol from the fireplace, where he stood blowing the fire with his breath. where the victuals bide, and I'll do all the cooking. princes-especially my mate."

We'll pay like

"There's but little in house," said the sleepy woman from her bedroom. "There's pig's fry, a side of bacon, a conger eel, and pickled onions."

"Conger eel?" said Sol to Mountclere.

"No, thank you."

"Pig's fry?"

"No, thank you."

"Well, then, tell me where the bacon is," shouted Sol to the woman. "You must find it," came again down the stairs. ""Tis somewhere up in chimley, but in which part I can't mind. Really I don't know whether I be upon my head or my heels, and my brain is all in a spin, wi' being rafted up in such a larry!"

"Bide where you be, there's a dear," said Sol. "We'll do it all. Just tell us where the tea-caddy is, and the gridiron, and then you can go to sleep again."

The woman appeared to take his advice, for she gave the information, and silence soon reigned upstairs.

When one piece of bacon had been with difficulty cooked over the newly lit fire, Sol said to Mountclere, with the rasher on his fork: "Now look here, sir, I think while I am making tea, you ought to go on griddling some more of these, as you haven't done nothing at all?"

"And when you have done yours, I'll cook the man's, as the pore feller's hungry, I make no doubt."

Mountclere, fork in hand, then began with his rasher, tossing it about the gridiron in masterly style, Sol attending to the tea. He was attracted from this occupation by a brilliant flame up the chimney, Mountclere exclaiming, "Now the cursed thing is on fire!"

"Blow it out-hard-that's it! Well now, sir, do you come and begin upon mine, as you must be hungry. I'll finish the griddling. Ought we to mind the man sitting down in our company, as there's no other room for him? I hear him coming in."

"Oh no-not at all.

"And I'll join him.

Put him over at that table."

You can sit here by yourself, sir. Rank is rank." The meal was dispatched, and the coachman again retired, promising to have the horses ready in about an hour and half. Sol and Mountclere made themselves comfortable upon either side of the fireplace, to wait till the animals had rested: after sitting in silence awhile, they nodded and slept. How long they would have remained thus, in consequence of their fatigues, there is no telling, had not the mistress of the cottage descended the stairs about two hours later, after peeping down upon them at intervals of five minutes during their sleep, lest they should leave without her knowledge. It was six o'clock, and Sol went out for the man, whom he found snoring in the furze-loft. There was now some necessity for haste, and in ten minutes they were again on their way.

Day dawned upon the Old Fox inn at Anglebury with a timid and watery eye. From the shadowy archway came a shining lantern, which was seen to be dangling from the hand of a little bow-legged old man—

the hostler, John. Having reached the front, he looked around to measure the daylight, opened the lantern, and extinguished it by a pinch of his fingers. He paused for a moment to have the customary word or two with his neighbour the milkman, who usually appeared at this point at this time.

"It sounds like the whistle of the morning train," the milkman said as he drew near, a scream from the further end of the town reaching their ears. "Well, I hope, now the wind's in that quarter, we shall ha’e a little more fine weather-hey, hostler?"

"What be ye a talking o'?"

"Can hear the whistle plain, I say."

"Oh, ay. I suppose you do. But faith, 'tis a poor fist I can make at hearing anything. There, I could have told all the same that the wind was in the east, even if I had not seed poor Thomas Tribble's smoke blowing across the little orchard. Joints be a true weather-cock enough when past three-score. These easterly rains, when they do come, which is not often, come wi' might enough to squail a man into his grave."

"Well, we must look for it, hostler. . . . Why, what mighty ekkypage is this, come to town at such a purblinking time of day?"

""Tis what time only can tell-though 'twill not be long first," the hostler replied, as the driver of the pair of horses and carriage containing Sol and Mountclere slackened pace, and drew rein before the inn.

Fresh horses were immediately called for, and while they were being put in the two travellers walked up and down.

"It is now a quarter to seven o'clock," said Mountclere; "and the question arises, shall I go on to Knollsea, or branch off at Coomb for Lychworth? I think the best plan will be to drive first to Lychworth, set me down, and then get him to take you on at once to Knollsea. What do you say?"

"When shall I reach Knollsea by that arrangement?"

"By half-past eight o'clock. We shall be at Lychworth before eight, which is excellent time."

Very well, sir, I agree to that," said Sol, feeling that as soon as one of the two birds had been caught, the other could not mate without their knowledge.

The carriage and horses being again ready, away they drove at once, both having by this time grown too restless to spend in Anglebury a minute more than was necessary. The hostler and his lad had taken the jaded Sandbourne horses to the stable, rubbed them down, and fed them, when another noise was heard outside the yard: the omnibus had returned from meeting the train. Relinquishing the horses to the small stable-lad, the old hostler again looked out from the arch.

A young man had stepped from the omnibus, and he came forward. "I want a conveyance of some sort to take me to Knollsea, at once. Can you get a horse harnessed in five minutes?"

"I'll make shift to do what I can, master, not promising about the