hood behind; but one little omission must be
remedied: where—oh where!—are my grelots?

Everybody knows that all over the
Continent every horse is adorned with bells—
that is to say, every horse of respectability.
But hirers of horses are sometimes indifferent
what sort of figure their customers make
along the road, and therefore turn them out
in a bell-less state, reserving all their means
of migratory music for their own selfish and
special use. To remedy this a part of my
private and personal property has lately
consisted of a leather wreath of little round bells,
which are the grelots just mentioned. As
soon as my horse appears they are buckled
round his neck; when his work is done, and
he departs to his stable, they take their place
on a hook in our kitchen, until their harmony
is again demanded to enliven the progress of
the way-worn traveller. I cannot help liking
these bells; without them I hardly enjoy
a drive. "She shall make music wherever
she goes" is a pleasing nursery rhyme to
think of. If you are journeying by night
without lamps they save you from many a
rude collision; and if you leave your carriage
to walk up a hill, or to take a short cut
through a wood, or to look round a corner,
as inquisitive people will, the jingling of your
bells from time to time reminds you that you
are not altogether deserted in the world.
You soon get to know the sound of your own
jingle, just as you would the step or the
voice of a familiar friend.

Crick! Crack! Jingle! Jangle!—Off
we are at last, Jules. If the road would only
continue like this, we should get to Moulins
pleasantly enough. That can hardly be
expected though; we must take the rough along
with the smooth. Here is the point where
we quit the departmental road to descend
into that wooded valley; at least, so says my
map; and it has never deceived me yet.
Pretty country! Terribly narrow lanes!
Who would have thought of finding a, little
castle, all covered with roses, nestled in that
clump of elms? And look at the pea-fowl
in the orchard opposite, up to their necks in
the uncut hay. But softly, Jules! I think
we had better get out and walk. The cabriolet
will be pulled to pieces. Do I mind
walking so far? I like it; especially now
we are mounting the hill-side. I still think,
however, that we ought to have taken the
other turn instead of this soon after we
passed the ford. No?] You are sure? I
wish at least we had asked the counsel of
those labourers at the corner there. But,
Jules, as we mount the heights what a rich
and beautiful landscape lies before us! Out
of the way and novel, too. I should like to
know how many travelling English people
have been delighted with the panorama we
now enjoy. A solitary, still pastoral picture.
In front, green wood-tufted hill and dale; to
the extreme left those pudding-shaped domes,
which are blown up by the winds to bank out
the waves. The left wings of this extensive
stage, on which you and I are the sole visible
human actors, are the forest and the chalk
hills that we know so well. In the middle
distance, down below, lies the picturesque old
town, whose merry-making amused us last
Whitsun Tuesday, and from whose tall chimneys
now issue black and white wreaths of
smoke and steam. Then leagues and leagues
away, far as the eye can follow it, stretches
the dark blue line of the level sea. Let us
wait here for two minutes to imbibe with our
vision this lovely scene, and store its beauties
in our memory. The mare has now had a
breathing; and the map says we must cross
that forest. It is not extensive, and of course
there are roads.

If the mare and the cabriolet were out
of the way, this forest walk would be
pleasant enough. The carrion crows, croaking as
we approach their tree; the cuckoos, chasing
each other overhead, and stammering "cuck-
cuck-cuckoo!" in fun; one wild strawberry,
scarlet ripe; and the yellow-flowered
runners of pale green, moneywort; all this,
Jules, is charming in broad sunshine. But
what should we do, if it were now pitch-dark?
I am sure we took the wrong turn at the
bottom of the hill. Never mind; we are out
of the forest. Worse and worse; more
overgrown cart-ruts, and dried-up torrent-beds!
It is impossible the cabriolet can proceed any
further; and the road may be the same as
this for another two or three leagues.

A council of war. We come to this
conclusion. "I, being sure of the direction, will
walk over hill and dale, through forest and
plain, to Mambergue, on the national road,
and sleep there, if you, Jules, do not catch
me late in the evening. Retrace your steps,
us the only way of escape from this labyrinth
until you come to the departmental road
which we left. Manage the mare as well
as you can. Feed and rest her by the way;
take the long circuit we ought to have made
at first; and pick me up at Mambergue as
soon as you are able. I shall be sure to get
there first. We cannot miss each other.
Let us open my carpet-bag, to get out my
night-cap—all the luggage I need carry with
me. I have my bank-notes here, which I
thought to change to-night at Moulins, but
I have no small coin about me. Lend me
a franc, or two, and half-a-dozen sous. My
pocket is already furnished with a couple of
pieces of string, which you know I never stir
without. That will do. Good bye, Jules."

"Good bye, Monsieur Feelsone."

As I had rightly anticipated, the rugged
track to Mambergue was amusing, instead of
offering any difficulties to a pedestrian; and
I had done quite right in sending back Jules
and the cabriolet. A little before sunset I
reached my appointed destination. The map
was correct in making the national road pass
quite outside the village. The inn, clearly
the best and most accustomed, stood by