the big bay hoss shaking hisself among the ducks an' geese. Hi! girl, bring us some rum and milk. The wench looks like a ghost."

This last observation was addressed to Madge, who stared at the glittering equipage with feelings only known to herself.

The fat man in the white coat now descended nervously from the box, making his foothold ludicrously secure at every step, puffed himself out, put the knob of his cane in his mouth thoughtfully, and strutted into the inn parlour. Then he strutted out again, having found nothing.

"Where's the Duke "-he had just begun to say with some importance, when the stud groom glanced quietly down from the box at him, and observed in an under-tone, "There's his Grace looking out at yer from the winder, Mr. Sharpe."

The fat man seemed to grow smaller when he heard this, and his smug features put on an air of precipitate humility. He took off his shiny hat with a cringing air and bowed to the ground, while the young huntsman of the day before called to him in tones of astonishment and displeasure, not unmixed with anxiety, "Hullo, Sharpe, I thought you were at Doncaster. I told you to go yesterday."

"Game's up, your Grace. Tipster's lot had cut the grass under my feet." "The devil they had. They must have used a scythe then, and I lose thirty thou' again with you confounded bookmakers. William, send up Lafleur with my clothes, and keep the team moving. I shall be down in an hour."

"All right, your Grace," answered the man on the box, touching his hat. "Mr. Sharpe, wake up Mussheer Leflore inside, will you, and tell the Frenchman to be off with the Dook's traps, or we shall have something at our 'eds from that there winder in a jiffy."

Mr. Sharpe, thus adjured, went hastily to the coach window, and bawled "Moussoo Lefloor" till the startled valet roused himself, and presently emerged with a carpet-bag, a dressing-case, and an india-rubber folding bath, with which he went upstairs. He was a very dignified gentleman, and looked like a minister of state, got up for an "at home."

"I say, Mr. Sharpe," now remarked the stud groom in a low voice, flicking something off the near leader's ears with his whip, "we've bin and gone and hit the Dook precious hard this time, at Doncaster."

"A still tongue makes a wise head, William," said the fat man, lighting a fat cigar.

"What do I clear by the fluke, Mr. Sharpe ?" asked the stud groom, ruminating. "I've been a-thinkin' a good deal about that there public down at Epsom, since you put me up to it, and promised as how you would winter yer runnin' 'osses there."

"Never mind about the public just yet. That'll keep, that will, William. You've got a good place, haven't you? Well, then, slow and sure, that's yer motter."

"I don't complain, Mr. Sharpe; though the Dook don't pay up as he might do, drat him! The young beggar owes me a year an' a 'alf's wages,

an' there ain't no signs of his munney, as I sees. If it warn't for the corn-chandler and the saddler I should not have been able to put the pot on at the Derby this year, nohow. The coach-builder do say, says he, he won't give neither me nor Sam a rap till he gets his own brads."

"He be blowed," said Mr. Sharpe. "Go to my man, Riquetti, in Long Acre. He knows it's all right till I tell him it ain't. The young 'un must have some more wheels when he goes to town, and you can tell him Growler's things don't run light enough. He's sure to bite at that. None of them chaps can hold their nags together if they had a four-wheel furniture van behind 'em, but they're allis agog for light traps."

"I don't say no, Mr. Sharpe, and the dodge isn't so hard to try, is it? His Grace b'leeves anythink a'most as I tells him. It ain't very diffickult to 'umbug him. But the grey mare she won't quite do, she won't." "Why not?" sneered Mr. Sharpe. "You got your commission from

Coper, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did, Mr. Sharpe, and in coorse many thanks to you for that an' all favers. Only Lord George he was a-talking to the Dook about her last Wednesday was a week; and a nod is as good as a wink. No offence, I hope, Mr. Sharpe ?"

"Oh, dear, no, William. But what did Lord George say to his Grace about the grey?"

"His lordship said she warn't much good, onless for cat's-meat-that he did, Mr. Sharpe."

"And what did his Grace answer?"

"Oh, says his Grace, says he, I knows that very well, but old knifeblade won't do a bit of stiff for nuthink; and I thought he meant you, so I tells you on it, Mr. Sharpe. You got me my place, and I ham in dooty bound so for to do."

"Put stockings under her shoes, William," answered Mr. Sharpe. "She'll go even enough till the Dook wants another, and then, why you'll always find Coper ready with a five-pound note a leg. That'll do, won't it?"

“That'll do, Mr. Sharpe : but yer see the mare jibs; and when they goes a bit okkerd, the Dook gets hold of the whip, and, my eye, how he do pay it into 'em, and hollers, he do, enuff to scare a flock o' sheep. We shall capsize all on us some day, and I might just fall a bit heavy, you knows, Mr. Sharpe."

"Take off her bearing-rein, William, and put the other up to the cheek. Keep the whip away from his Grace at startin', and take care the boys give her her head."

The conversation went on in this strain for some time, while the drag was moving slowly up and down before the roadside inn, till the huntsman's bedroom window was thrown open again, and M. Lafleur, in broken English, ordered one of the grooms, who were lounging against the sign-post, to call the coach, as his Grace was coming down.

During these proceedings Madge Giles had gone about the house like one stupefied by a narcotic. She could not realize anything that had happened within the last twelve hours, and did not know whether she was

waking or sleeping. Mr. Sharpe had tried, with coarse familiarity, to joke with her, but she took no notice of him, and did not seem even to hear what he said.

Poor Madge did not drop, though her knees were weak and her eyes haggard. It is only the rich who can give way to their feelings in the privacy of a comfortable apartment, where cambric handkerchiefs are kept ready for tears, and a down pillow for an aching head. She had to light the kitchen fire and get breakfast ready, to sweep the house and feed the fowls; and she went about these duties, though her lip quivered with suppressed anguish and her heart felt heavy enough to burst her breast.

If she could only see him once more, thought the unhappy girl, she might bear her burthen better; but of that there seemed small chance. Directly the French valet had entered his room she was cut off from him as completely as if they were miles apart. One or other of the top-booted grooms was always running up and down the staircase, now with pails of cold water for the bath, now with jugs of hot water, now with boots and brushes; and all these things had to be taken down again and repacked in the coach, so that perpetual motion was going on at the roadside inn. Towards nine o'clock, however, the bedroom door was dashed open with a bang, and a quick elastic step cleared the stairs two at once. It must be he who had stolen away her very self. She raised her hot red eyelids, which had been cast down before, and looked timidly out from the kitchen door. He was talking to Mr. Sharpe, with his back turned towards her, and she hardly knew him at first, he was so changed. He wore a darkblue frock-coat, closely buttoned, a high napless white hat, and trousers of yellow cord. She had seen the uniform of the Cloudesdale hunt before, but she had never seen such a dress as this. She feared he had gone away as mysteriously as he came, till he turned round and smiled at her; and then she looked at him with one glance of mute appeal that was almost terrible in its pathos. Her face was of an ashen white, her mouth was parted, and the underlip drooped with so strange a likeness to his own, that Mr. Sharpe again noticed it, and turning away relieved his feelings by a prolonged whistle.

But the wild mournful look of the girl, so fearful in its silent misery, fell unheeded on the callous noble. He patted her in a merry mood upon the cheek, and said gaily, "Madge, my pretty maid of the inn, pick me a flower for my button-hole as a keepsake."

There were some honeysuckles and late monthly roses in the inn garden, a legacy from the wealth of departed summer. She picked a rosebud for him and held it out with a hand parched by fever. He had already taken the reins when she brought it, and as he tried to put it in his breast, the leaders moved impatiently, and the rosebud fell broken to the ground. He had given her something as he took the flower from her. She did not know what it was. The next moment he was on the box.

"Let them go, boys," he shouted, and the grooms jumped away from the horses' heads. The grey mare backed and kicked viciously at the splinter-bar.

"Give her her head, your Grace," said Mr. William, the stud groom, quickly, and Mr. Sharpe clutched nervously at the rail of his seat. "Where's the whip, William," asked the Duke, losing his temper. "It's slipped down behind your Grace," said Mr. William, who had purposely dropped it. "Tom, look alive, and fetch his Grace's whip, can't you?" One of the boys, who had just climbed up behind, winked to the other, thrust his tongue in his cheek, and threw himself down. Mr. William pretended he could not reach the whip, when the boy held it towards him, and swore some quaint stable oaths, which put the Duke in a good humour. Just then, too, the leaders started off with a rush, and went over the hills and far away at a hand-gallop.

Madge gazed wistfully after the drag as it disappeared, and then, going up to her own room, she locked herself in, and cried with an exceeding great and bitter cry.

CHAPTER VI.
DESERTED.

MADGE was not seen again till late in the afternoon, when the inn had resumed its usual aspect. Honest Tom Brown, wondering at her absence, and the cold dinner without potatoes which was the inevitable result of it, could not get rid of an uneasy notion that something had occurred which was unknown to him. But he was an ignorant and inarticulate fellow, not a chatterbox even in his cups, of which he drank but few, and having been up all night, he was not altogther sorry for an excuse to lie down in the hayloft, and have a good sleep. He was tired with his twenty-four miles' walk to Dronington and back, tired with watching for her fruitlessly, and when he got up she was about again. She did not indeed speak to him, or to anybody else, and she looked as if she had been crying; but since yesterday he could not muster up courage to talk to her. So he mooned about in and out of the house, and backwards and forwards to the stables, thinking that all would come right in good time-an axiom with which many a dull man has been fain to comfort himself under dismal circumstances.

In the stable was the tall bay hunter; and the mite of a boy in a drab jacket and overalls, who had been rubbing its sprained leg and bandaging it by turns since morning. He had also swathed the horse up to its eyes in the clothing he brought with him, and having drank about a gallon of strong ale, the small boy and the big horse were about to set off together.

"He's still lame as he was afore, old stick-in-the-mud," remarked the small boy to Tom Brown; "but I've prummissed my old 'oman to be 'ome for supper-so we're off, and Red Rover can get hisself right arterwards." "Ye mawn't go miscallin' your mawther that loike," said Tom Brown. "My old 'oman ain't my muther, now then, stoopid," answered the boy, indignantly. "She's my missus."

"Ye bain't above a matter o' ten year old, an' ye got a missus? asked Tom Brown, in much amazement.

"I'm risin' sixteen; fifteen last selliger," said the boy. cos it's the big day at Doncaster."

“I knows it,

Tom Brown subsided after this information, though probably his private opinion was not much altered by it, and presently the short boy, who might have been any age between twelve and fifty, if judged from his appearance when closely examined, led out the tall horse and prepared to set off upon his journey.

"Who be yure maister, and wheer do 'un live ?" inquired Tom Brown, with friendly interest, as they took leave of each other.

"Walker, up a street," said the boy, trying his latest acquirement in squinting; and tucking the horse's bridle under his arm, he began whistling "Nancy Dawson," and went about his business with the lame horse hobbling after him.

Nothing happened for many days after this at Wakefield-in-the-Marsh. It was a lost, out-of-the-way place, lying twelve miles from the nearest market town of any importance. The land in the neighbourhood, which was not very good for agricultural purposes, belonged to two or three great proprietors, and the sub-agents who collected their rents lived at Dronington. The inn was the best house in the village, and there was not a person in it but the curate, Mr. Mowledy, who ever subscribed to a newspaper or read a book. Even Mr. Mowledy had been for some time away in the north, and his duty was performed by a hasty parson, who rode over from Dronington at a brisk canter every Sunday, and kept his horse waiting at the "Chequers" while he hurried through a single service. It did not much matter: there were seldom more than half a score of bumpkins, chiefly old, who went to church at all, and they understood nothing of Mesopotamia, about which this hasty parson preached to them from an old mouse-eaten stock of sermons he found at the rectory. The rector himself had been a hard-riding, six-bottle man, who had got into debt and disgrace. He had not seen his parishioners since his insolvency, and had never at any previous period concerned himself with their education or culture; and Mr. Mowledy received but 601. a year for filling one of the richest benefices in England as best he could upon so meagre a stipend.

There was none of the frightful poverty of populous cities, no hideous beggary with unheeded sores at Wakefield. The people did well enough, and got plenty to eat and drink. They had a very prolific breed of ducks and geese, which they sent with butter and eggs to market once a week. Most of them had a pig and a cow; those who had not, worked contentedly for those who had. But there was probably not a more ignorant or ill-taught place in England. Long ago Mr. Mowledy had tried his hand at a school; but the blacksmith, Mr. Jinks' father, and the wheelwright, who led the community, did not care to take their children from work to learn their letters; and John Giles, of the "Chequers," knew that Madge had too much to do at home to go dangling after the parson's heels. So by-and