down by sheer distrust of himself, and that of
the man who has seen better days. Although
the one be just entering on life, while the other
is going out of it, if they meet on the threshold,
they stop to form a friendship. Now, though
Blondel was not a man, he supplied to my
friendlessness the place of one.

The sun was near its setting as I rode down
the little hill into the village of Ashford, a
picturesque little spot in the midst of mountains,
and with a bright clear stream bounding through
it, as fearlessly as though in all the liberty of
open country. I tried to make my entrance
what stage people call effective. I threw
myself, albeit a little jaded, into an attitude of easy
indifference, slouched my hat to one side, and
suffered the sprig of laburnum with which I had
adorned it to droop in graceful guise over one.
shoulder. The villagers stared; some saluted me;
and taken, perhaps, by the cool acquiescence of
my manner as I returned the courtesy, seemed
well disposed to believe me of some note.

I rode into the little stable-yard of the Lamb,
and dismounted. I gave up my horse, and walked
into the inn. I don't know how others feel it—
I greatly doubt if they will have the. honesty
to tell—but for myself I confess that I never
entered an inn or an hotel without a most
uncomfortable conflict within: a struggle made up of
two very antagonistic impulses—  the wish to seem,
something important, and a lively terror lest the
pretence should turn out to be costly. Thus
swayed by opposing, motives, I sought a
compromise by assuming: that I was incog.; for the
present a nobody, to be treated without any
marked attention, and to whom the acme of
respect would be a seeming indifference.

"What is your village called?" I said,
carelessly, to the waiter as he laid the cloth.

"Ashford, your honour. 'Tis down in all the
books," answered the waiter.

"Is it noted for anything, or is there anything
remarkable in the neighbourhood?"

"Indeed there is, sir, and plenty. There's
Glenmalure and.the Devil's Glen; and there's
Mr. Snow Malone's place, that everybody goes
to see; and there's the fishing of Doyle's river
—trout, eight, nine, maybe twelve, pounds'
weight; and there's Mr. Reeves's cottage—a
Swiss cottage belike—at Kinmacreedy; but, to
be sure, there must be an order for that."

"I never take much trouble," I said,
indolently. "Who have you got in the house at
present?"

"There's young Lord Keldrum, sir, and two
more with him, for the fishing; and the next
room to you here, there's Father Dyke, from
Inistioge, and he's going, by the same token, to
dine with the lord to-day."

"Don't mention to his lordship that. I am
here," said I, hastily. " I desire to be quite
unknown down here." The waiter promised
obedience, without vouchsafing any misgivings
as to the possibility of his disclosing what he
did not know.

To his question as to my dinner, I carelessly
said, as if I wore in a West-end club, "Never
mind soup—a little fish—a cutlet and partridge.
Or order it yourself I am indifferent."

The waiter had scarcely left the room when I
was startled by the sound of voices so close to
me as to seem at my side. They came from a
little wooden balcony to the adjoining room,
which, by its pretentious bow-window I recognised
to be the state apartment of the inn, and
now in the possession of Lord Keldrum and his
party. They were talking away in that gay,
rattling, discursive fashion very young men do
amongst each other, and discussed fishing-flies,
the neighbouring gentlemen's seats, and the
landlady's niece.

"By the way, Kel," cried one, "it was in
your visit to the bar that you met your priest,
wasn't it?"

"Yes; I offered him a cigar, and we began
to chat together, and so I asked him to dine
with us to-day."
"And he refused?"

"Yes; but he has since changed his mind, and
sent a message to say he'll be with us at eight."
"I should like to see your father's face, Kel,
when he heard of your entertaining the Reverend
Father Dyke at dinner."

"Well, I suppose he would say it was carrying
conciliation a little too far; but as the adage
says, ' A la guerre——'"

At this juncture, another burst in amongst
them, calling out, "You'd never guess who's
just arrived here, in strict incog., and having
bribed Mike, the waiter, to silence. Burgoyne!"

"Not Jack Burgoyne?"

"Jack himself. I had the portrait so
correctly drawn by the waiter, that there's no
mistaking him; the long hair, green complexion,
sheepish look, all perfect. He came on a hack, a
little cream-coloured pad he got at Dycer's, and
fancies he's quite unknown."

"What can he be up to, now?"

"I think I have it," said his lordship.
"Courtenay has got two three-year olds down here at
his uncle's, one of them under heavy engagements
for the spring meetings. Master Jack
has taken a run down to have a look at them."

"By Jove, Kel, you're right! he's always
wide awake, and that stupid, leaden-eyed look
he has, has done him good service in the world."

"I say, old Oxley, shall we dash in and
unearth him. Or shall we let him fancy that we
know nothing of his being here at all?"

"What does Hammond say?"

"I'd say, leave him to himself," replied a
deep voice; " you can't go and see him, without
asking him to dinner; and he'll walk into us
after, do what we will."

"Not, surely, if we don't play," said Oxley.

"Wouldn't he, though? Why, he'd screw a
bet out of a bishop."

"I'd do with him as Tomkinson did," said
his lordship; "he had him down at his lodge
in Scotland, and bet him fifty pounds that he
couldn't pass a week without a wager. Jack
booked the bet and won it, and Tomkinson
franked the company."

"What an artful villain my counterpart must