hens might have so forgotten herself as to lay in such weather, in that cold, dark little stable of "The Wagoner's Rest." Meanwhile, he had taken possession of the bar, heaped up the fire, seated his companion opposite to him, and, by the time the landlord arrived with a jug of his best ale, was as much at home as if he had been in the habit of taking his meals there once a week for the last ten years.

"I'm afraid you'll find it a leetel chilly, gentlemen," said the landlord, as he placed the jug and glasses on the table; "the cellar ain't altogether as warm as it should be."

"O, never fear! We shall warm your ale fast enough, I've no doubt. Home-brewed, eh?"

"Ees, whoam-brewed, sir; I does the maltin' for all the farmers round. 'Tis raal malt and hops, I assure 'ee.”

"That's all right then. Yes, that has the right smack," he went on, pouring out a glass and taking it off, "fine and bright and wholesome tackle. We have n't tasted such ale this many a day, have we, Johnny? But, as you say, a little chilled; so we'll put it on the hob till the rashers Real old Christmas weather this, eh, landlord?" "Ah, 't is, sir."

come.

"And when does your mail-cart come by?

"At eight o'clock, sir."

"Well, the driver will bring our traps, and there is a carrier from this to Avenly, is n't there?"

"Ees, sir."

"Does he live here?"

"Just athert the street, sir."

"Then I should like to see him. You can send over for him presently. Ah, here come the rashers. They look splendid, ma'am. But no eggs!"

"Well, sir, you see as our hens gets no het about the place. My master don't kep no beastesses. There's no 'commodation for 'em here, and I tells 'un th' hens wunt lay without het."

"Never mind, ma'am; the hens are quite right. We shall do famously with that splendid loaf and the cheese. Here, Johnny, hold your plate. We're not turning you out, ma'am? Pray, don't go, don't mind us."

The landlady protested that they were quite welcome to the bar, and soon followed her husband, leaving them alone to their meal, to which they proceeded to do ample justice. The worthy pair were soon discussing their guests with one or two village gossips, who had already arrived in the kitchen, amongst them the village carrier.

The travellers lost no time over their food. The landlady was summoned, complimented, and paid, and came out of her bar again very favorably impressed with the strangers. In another minute they were in the kitchen amongst the circle of the Lilburne quidnuncs, ready for the road. The elder made the necessary arrangement with the carrier to bring on their luggage, and then, after shaking hands with the courtesying landlady, they sallied out into the street, accompanied to the door by the landlord and several of the men. The daylight was fast slipping away. The air was perfectly still and hushed, but a dull heavy curtain of cloud had settled on the village, from which every now and then a crisp flake or two of snow came floating gently down.

"We sha'n't have much light for our walk, Johnny; are you sure about the road?"

"I should think so. Besides, there is no turn in it except the one at the end of the village, on to the downs." "Very good. You are pilot. It's a straight road to Avenly, eh?" he added, turning to the carrier.

"Ees; but 't is a unked road to kep to in a vall, is the downs road," replied the carrier, "by reason as there ain't no hedges, and sech like, to go by."

"You think we're going to have a fall, then?"

"It hev looked like nothin' else aal day."

"Then we must make the most of the daylight. The moon will be up in an hour."

"Ees; but her 'll kep t' other side o' th' fall, zur.”

"Small blame to her. Well, good night."

A chorus of "Good nights" from the conclave at the door of "The Wagoner's Rest" followed the two travellers, as they strode away down the village street. Before they were out of sight, the snow began to fall in earnest. The villagers stood gaping after them. Such an event was to them as good as a war telegram to their kindred circles in the neighborhood of St. James's.

"Be 'em gen'l'volk, now, zhould 'ee zay?" asked the blacksmith, taking his pipe from his mouth.

"Gen'l'volk!

carrier.

Wut bist thenkin' ov?" replied the

"Wut, dost n't thenk so? I'ze warn'd 'em for gen'l'volk, that I 'ool," put in the landlord. "Wut dost take 'em for, then?"

"Zummat in th' engineerin' line, or contractor chaps, med be."

"Noa, noa! Thaay be too pleasant-spoken, and don't give no trouble."

"But wut dost zaay to them ther' girt beards? And th' clothes on 'em like zacks, and mwoast as coarse?"

The beard movement, and modern habits of dress, had not yet penetrated to Lilburne. The carrier's last remark seemed to puzzle the landlord, more or less.

"Wut dost zaay, Muster Gabbet?" he said, turning to one of the circle, who had not yet spoken; "be 'em gen'lvolk, or bean't 'em?"

The person appealed to had been a groom in his youth, who had seen "Lunnon," and other distant countries. He kept a pony, too, on which he frequented all neighboring meets of hounds, and other sporting gatherings, and was considered a great authority by the Lilburne coterie on any

matter involving knowledge of life.

From his contact with

the outer world the edges of his accent had been rubbed off. He was a man of few and weighty words.

"Gentlemen, to be sure,” replied Mr. Gabbet.

"I told 'ee zo," said the landlord, triumphantly, turning to the carrier.

66

"Wi' beards like bottle-brushes! haw, haw!" rejoined that worthy, by no means discomfited.

"That's no odds," replied Mr. Gabbet.

"Last coursin'

meetin' ther' was half th' young squires wi' beards." "And wi' duds on 'em, like galley-crows, I s'poses! haw, haw!" said the incredulous carrier.

“What dost go on laaffin' for, thee girt gawney?” said the landlord; "that's how th' gen'l'volk do dress now-a-days, bean't it, Mr. Gabbet? Ther' wur young Squire Mundell passed here only last week, dressed noways different from thaay; only he'd a got zhart wide breeches, and red striped stockin's, he had, and martal queer a did look.”

"They calls them dresses nick-and-nockers," said Mr. Gabbet, gravely.

"Nockers or no, I dwont call 'em gen'l'volk," persisted the incorrigible carrier.

"Thee 'st as cam as a peg. "Tain't a mossel o' use to talk sense to th'."

At this point of the dialogue the objects of the conversation took the turn towards the downs, and disappeared, and Mr. Gabbet retired suddenly into the house. He was followed at once by the rest, and the knotty question was adjourned to the chimney-corner, where it furnished talk for the rest of the evening, and caused the consumption of several extra mugs of beer.

CHAPTER II.

THE little hamlet of Avenly is dropped, as it were, in a dip of the downs, many miles from anything approaching to a town. It consists of a miniature church, and neat parsonage-house and garden; the manor-house and curtilage, which we must look at more closely presently; one public house; two or three general shops in a very small way, one of which is the post-office; and a dozen or two thatched cottages. These are scattered prettily enough by the side of the road from Lilburne to Devizes, or of the little clear brook, which runs parallel to the road through the hamlet, between the church and the manor-house.

There are three or four clumps of fine ashes and elms in or near the hamlet, of which the biggest is the rookery at the end of the manor-garden. There is also timber in the fences of the few enclosures, one of which enclosures is a fine orchard, and there are fruit-trees in most of the cottagegardens. Where the hamlet stands, the dip is not half a mile across; it is narrower yet above, and widens below. The downs encircle the place on all sides. Except within the enclosures, not a tree is to be seen; and the contrast is what gives its peculiar charm to the little out-of-the-way place, as it lies there in the lap of the great brown bare downs, rejoicing in its own shade and verdure. The first glance from the brow above, as you come upon it either from the Lilburne or Devizes side, shows you at once the character of the place. It has the special characteristics of the old manor, the big house in the middle, the little copyhold tenements clustering about it, and around a sea of common lands; not that the lands are copyhold, but the manorhouse is so completely the centre of the little community, that one could easily fancy the little people about holding their allotments still by suit and service, as indeed they