little distance, to be out of hearing, while the storm blew over. He waited for some time while coarse taunts and hard invectives fell pelting on the Doctor's head, and when he disappeared with a sudden jerk, as though pulled into the house by a claw, Mr. Mowledy sighed gently over the loss of his small savings, and returned to Wakefield-in-the-Marsh with some pity and even some respect for the castaway.

CHAPTER XIII.

WEDDING-BELLS.

THE Curate having received an authentic copy of the baptismal certificate in due course from Dr. Porteous, called at the "Chequers" with this document in his pocket-book, to assure John Giles that there need be no further obstacle or delay to retard the wedding. He even showed the certificate, in his precise, conscientious way, to John, in proof of the fact. Upon seeing the certificate, John scratched his head and said he would "be danged if he hadn't a peaper loike that there" in the lining of his hat. He had indeed taken it out of his wife's cupboard one day after her death, and put it there because the hat was too large for him. Now he removed it cheerfully for inspection, and the two papers being minutely compared, were found to be identical.

The names of Thomas Brown, batchelor, and Margaret Wyldwyl, spinster, both of this parish, being then duly published in church on three successive Sundays, and nobody seeing any just cause or impediment why they should not be joined in holy matrimony, they were married; and a joyous peal of bells was rung from the church steeple as they walked home through the meadows, attended by a party of bumpkin wellwishers, who dined somewhat uproariously afterwards, being bidden thereto by John Giles with a willing mind. He soon gave the business altogether up to them, being naturally averse to trouble, and glad to have it taken off his hands. But nothing was outwardly changed at the inn. Tom Brown still did his ostler's work as before. There was not much to do. The waggoners mostly brought a truss of hay with them, and some corn and chaff ready mixed in nose-bags. There was only the trough to fill with water every morning, and to take out a bung to let it drain off at night before a fresh supply was put in. Now and then a farmer stopped his cart going or coming back from Dronington market once a week. But farmers' horses are patient cattle, and they seldom required anything beyond a pail, and a handful of clover. The newlymarried pair had an easy life. The "Chequers" had its set of steady customers, who came and went at regular hours. The money they paid was put in the kitchen drawer, a few pence at a time, and when the brewer came he was paid out of it in coppers. They gained enough to live upon and pay the miller, the all-sorts shop, and occasionally the distiller; but

they put nothing by. They had their own poultry, eggs, milk, bacon, pork and vegetables. At Christmas there was an ox killed in the village, and the Wakefield folk divided it among them, paying chiefly in kind or in work for each portion. They had little need of money, and if a hostile army had invaded England, they would have had no harder task than to requisition fifty shillings at Wakefield-in-the-Marsh half of them would certainly have been in pence or farthings.

Madge seemed perfectly reconciled to her lot, if she had ever fancied she had reason to be dissatisfied with it, and at no subsequent period of her life did she ever appear to regret her marriage. Her husband was a clumsy, good-tempered fellow, who did all he could to please her, and she ruled over her household, as women will, in a natural way.

Her health came back, and her figure developed into matronly proportions with such surprising quickness that she acquired a character for great energy and decision among the gossips of the village.

"Thee hasn't been se larng a maykin' up thee moind, Madge Brown," said Mrs. Jinks, the blacksmith's mother, about three months after the wedding. "T' littal strarnger wun't be tu larng upon 'un's rowad, that 'un wun't, so I tells 'ee-now mark moy wurruds."

But Madge happened to be busy hanging out some clothes to dry just then, so she was obliged to walk away, and when she came back made Mrs. Jinks no answer, having to iron an apron; which work she evidently thought admitted of no delay, for she raked up the fire with a loud clatter. And though Mrs. Jinks, both then and afterwards, showed a female desire to recur to this subject, it so chanced that Madge had always something noisy to do whenever she touched upon it, though Mrs. Jinks was an old friend of hers, and the women liked each other.

“Wal, Madge, ye'll carl me in yere trouble, wun't 'ee, Madge? I be allus there, I be-yunder at the farge wi' Harry. Tummus have unlee far to put that hed ur his'n out o' t' winder und holler. Oi'll cum to 'ee farst as ould legs 'll carr' me-that I wull."

Madge promised to send for her as soon as her experience should be necessary; and Tom Brown also engaged the professional services of a medical man at Dronington. But neither Mrs. Jinks nor the doctor were unfortunately present when the event happened; for it occurred quite unexpectedly, to the extreme increase of the prophetic reputation of Mrs. Jinks, who, hearing with great delight that a man child had been born to Tom Brown, prematurely, and in the night, joyfully exclaimed that she had always foreseen it would be a seven-months' child, and bustled off to boast of her foresight and take her share of the baby, who was like all other babies, before and since, the common property of kindly neighbours.

She found sheepish Tom Brown very proud of his new dignity as a family man, and walking about with his hobnailed shoes off, that "t' mawther and choylde shud get a bit o' sleape," he said, with a rough tenderness. But Mrs, Jinks knew better what they wanted than he; and

neither Tom, nor John Giles, who passed his time in winking over his beer in reply to all inquiries, could safely say their souls were their own for the next ten days, being despotically ruled by Mrs. Jinks. She had unconsciously mastered the theory of personal government so thoroughly, that neither speech nor thought was free under her. She was, as greater personages have been and are, the absolute mistress of an absolute king, who could neither hear, nor see, nor speak, and who was in all respects an infant with no will of his own.

The two men were very glad when Madge came down again with her baby in her arms, and after having been churched in the customary manner, went quietly about her duties.

Mrs. Jinks, however, having fairly earned her renown as a prophetess, was fully determined not to part with it, or to suffer it upon any account to become dimmed by disuse, and, therefore, she now predicted, that whenever a seven-months' child was born, it was a sure sign he would have an impatient temper.

SOME difference of opinion had arisen at Wakefield-in-the-Marsh, where all the concerns of the parish belonged of right to the gossips, as to the name which should be given to the seven-months' child whose birth has been just recorded. Mr. Joyce was for having him called "Benjamin," and the sexton spoke with some authority in consequence of his connection with the churchyard-a place which few English persons have ever ventured to dissociate from the Church. Mrs. Jinks stood upon precedent, and declared that it had always been the custom at Wakefield, from time immemorial, to call a first child after the name of his grandfather, and John it was, and John "it did ought fur to be." The blacksmith said they might call him "Harry" too, if they liked-a name which he had found good enough for working purposes; and these worthy people had settled the whole thing between them, when Tom Brown, who had not been consulted, suggested it might be as well to ask his wife for her advice upon the subject, and he did so in a shy way peculiar to his uncouth, affectionate nature.

"Twull be a grand christenin', Madge," said Tom, touzling his shock head of hair, to get rid of some of his superfluous feelings without noise or disturbance.

Mrs. Brown, who was unusually pale and weak after her trouble, smiled faintly, but did not answer. She only cuddled her child closer, and rocked him on her breast by an almost imperceptible movement.

Presently Tom Brown put out his gigantic thumb, very slowly and timidly, pushing it forward a hair's-breadth at a time, till it touched the dimple, which was his son's neck. "Pretty," said Tom Brown. It was nearly the only word of endearment he knew; but the honest fellow's face was all aglow with pride and pleasure.

“Tummus,” murmured his wife very gently, "I've been a true lass to thee, Tummus."

"So thee hast, mawther; there bain't no denyin' on it."

"Tummus," said the young woman, again.

"What's your wull, Madge?" asked her husband, tenderly.

"Do 'ee beleave in ghoastes?" she inquired, with half-closed eyes. "Noa," answered Tom, touzling his hair rather energetically, and then he added; "leastways, not onless thee dost, Madge."

""Twheer a ghoast, Tummus, I seed t'-noight; thee didst trudge t' Droninton with that there summut writ on peeaper."

"Wheer it, mawther?" answered her husband in the tone in which one humours a child, for he had no definite ideas on the subject.

"It wheer a ghoast, so it wheer now, Tummus," repeated the woman, more confidently, and a light seemed to break over her face, as though she were just relieved of something that had lain heavy on her mind.

"Let us dandle t' choild a bit, Madge?" said her husband after a while, and he opened his arms awkwardly to take the little shapeless mass of humanity into them. Madge placed her treasure there for a moment, yet keeping anxious hold and watch over it. If it had cried or moved, she would have snatched it away and hushed it in her bosom; but the infant seemed soothed by the strong gentle touch of its father, and put its feeble knuckles in its eyes and smiled on him. Mother, father, and child were all linked together in Nature's own bonds by that cottage bedside; and there was a second birth of Love and Trust which happened to them, coming on quite silently and unperceived.

"What will 'ee carl thy choild, Madge?" then whispered Tom Brown. "Mrs. Jinks do say it should be John, Mrs. Jinks do."

Madge considered this proposition for some minutes, but it did not seem to obtain favour with her, and a dreamy, ecstatic expression grew into her eyes while she mused. Suddenly her face seemed to smile all over, and she murmured as softly as the cooing of a dove.

"'Un's neeam shall be William, Sweet William; he maun have no other neeam but that." Her poor ignorant, untaught mind, guided only by mother's love, had made a short tremulous flight into the regions of romance. Many far-off sounds and echoes linger inexplicably in the memory, though we never heard them; many seem a subtle part of our essence. A Lady Amabel Wyldwyl had composed one of the sweetest lyrics of the 16th century, which remains a popular song to this day, and "Sweet William " is the burthen of it. It was a curious coincidence, and the child was consequently christened William Brown.

The rite of baptism was duly performed, and the young Christian was

formally admitted into the fold of the Church upon the following Sunday. John Giles, the blacksmith and Mrs. Jinks jointly and severally renounced the pomps and vanities of the world on his behalf. Mr. Mowledy read the service so simply and touchingly that Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Harry Jinks found tears in their eyes when it was over, they knew not why; but Mrs. Jinks, who came out in great force upon the auspicious occasion, called them "Molloy Cawdles," and indulged in the somewhat obstreperous hilarity which seems naturally to accompany the first and most solemn event of our lives.

CHAPTER II.

HERIOT SERVICE AND CUSTOM.

NOTHING more was heard of the strange huntsman, who had once dined and slept at the "Chequers," since he drove off from the roadside inn on that October morning; and after a while all recollection of him passed away from the minds of the villagers at Wakefield-in-the-Marsh, as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but a day.

Thomas Brown and his wife had a numerous family besides their son William, and lived happily. But it was remarked that Madge lost her good looks soon after her marriage, and that she had a bad cough the following winter. She did not seem to get better during the succeeding spring or summer, and when the cold weather came on again she was visibly worse. She could not tell what was the matter with her. She felt no pain; she was in no immediate danger; she had only a sense of something having been lost out of her life-an inward and spiritual emptiness as if that were wanting to her nature which could never more be found. Like a plant growing in a soil unfavourable to its health and vigour, she drooped and could not come to maturity, though she lived on. The Dronington doctor, a merry old gentleman, was called in to see her, but could not make out that there was anything the matter: so he recommended her port-wine, which he liked himself, and sent his apprentice to study that "singular case" (which was not singular) " at the Chequers' inn, out Wakefield way," so he said carelessly. The apprentice astonished Madge by feeling her pulse in black gloves, and looking at her through a pair of gold spectacles with blue glasses, out of which he could not see. He was a London tradesman's son, who had a grave sense of his professional dignity. He sent her some mixture and pills of his own composition, in which acids and alkali were so curiously mingled, that the cork of the first supply blew off on the road, and the bottle, nicely labelled "Two tablespoonfuls three times a day," arrived empty. Then, taking a serious interest in her case, he brought some pills, which looked, to Madge's rustic eyes, like swan-shot, and were said by the apprentice, in learned language, to contain iron; but they had lain about so long in Dr. Bole's surgery drawer that they had lost all virtue, if they ever had any, or pos