November 3d. The most wonderful event has befallen — surely the most wonderful that ever came to pass outside the realms of fiction. Let me set down the circumstances of yesterday coolly and quietly if I can. I invoke the placid spirit of my Sheldon. I invoke all the divinities of Gray’s Inn and “The Fields.” Let me be legal and specific, perspicacious and logical — if this beating heart, this fevered brain, will allow me a few hours’ respite.

The autumn sunshine blessed the land again yesterday. Moorland and meadow, fallow and clover-field, were all the brighter for the steady downfall of the previous day. I walked to Newhall directly after breakfast, and found my dearest standing at the white five-barred gate, dressed in her pretty blue jacket, and with ribbons in her bonny brown hair.

She was pleased to see me, though at first just a little inclined to play the boudeuse on account of my absence on the previous day. Of course I assured her that it had been anguish for me to remain away from her, and quoted that divine sonnet of our William’s to the like effect:

“How like a winter hath my absence been!”

and again:

“O, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.”

Equally of course my pet pretended not to believe me. After this little misunderstanding we forgave each other, and adored each other again with just a little more than usual devotion; and then we went for a long ramble among the fields, and looked at the dear placid sheep, who stared at us wonderingly in return, as if exclaiming to themselves, “And these are a specimen couple of the creatures called lovers!”

We met uncle Joe in the course of our wanderings, and returned with him in time for the vulgar superstition of dinner, which we might have forgotten had we been left by ourselves. After dinner uncle Joe made off to his piggeries; while aunt Dorothy fell asleep in a capacious old arm-chair by the fire, after making an apologetic remark to the effect that she was tired, and had been a good deal “tewed” that morning in the dairy. “Tewed,” I understand, is Yorkshire for “worried.”

Aunt Dorothy having departed into the shadowy realm of dreams, Charlotte and I were left to our own devices.

There was a backgammon board on a side-table, surmounted by an old Indian bowl of dried rose-leaves; and, pour nous distraire, I proposed that I should teach my dearest that diverting game. She assented, and we set to work in a very business-like manner, Miss Halliday all attention, I serious as a professional schoolmaster.

Unfortunately for my pupil’s progress, the game of backgammon proved less entertaining than our own conversation, so, after a very feeble attempt on the one side to learn and on the other to teach, we closed the board and began to talk; — first of the past, then of the future, the happy future, which we were to share.

There is no need that I should set down this lovers’ talk. Is it not written on my heart? The future seemed so fair and unclouded to me, as my love and I sat talking together yesterday afternoon. Now all is changed. The strangest, the most surprising complications have arisen; and I doubt, I fear.

After we had talked for a long time, Miss Halliday suddenly proposed that I should read to her.

“Diana once told me that you read very beautifully,” said this flatterer; “and I should so like to hear you read — poetry of course. You will find plenty of poems in that old bookcase — Cowper, and Bloomfield, and Pope. Now I am sure that Pope is just the kind of poet whose verses you would read magnificently. Shall we explore the bookcase together?”

Now if there is any manner of beguiling an idle afternoon, which seems to me most delightful, it is by the exploration of old bookcases; and when that delight can be shared by the woman one fondly loves, the pleasure thereof must be of course multiplied to an indefinite amount.

So Charlotte and I set to work immediately to ransack the lower shelves of the old-fashioned mahogany bookcase, which contained the entire library of the Mercer household.

I am bound to admit that we did not light upon many volumes of thrilling interest. The verses of Cowper, like those of Southey, have always appeared to me to have only one fault — there are too many of them. One shrinks appalled from that thick closely-printed volume of morality cut into lengths of ten feet; and beyond the few well-worn quotations in daily use, I am fain to confess that I am almost a stranger to the bard of Olney.

Half a dozen odd volumes of the Gentleman’s Magazine, three or four of the Annual Register, a neatly-bound edition of Clarissa Harlowe and Sir Charles Grandison in twelve volumes, Law’s Holy Call to a Serious Life, Paradise Lost, Joseph Andrews, Hervey’s Meditations, and Gulliver’s Travels, formed the varied contents of the principal shelves. Above, there were shabbily-bound volumes and unbound pamphlets. Below, there were folios, the tops whereof were thickly covered with the dust of ages, having escaped the care of the handmaidens even in that neatly-appointed household.

I knelt down to examine these.

“You’ll be covered with dust if you touch them,” cried Charlotte. “I was once curious enough to examine them, but the result was very disappointing.”

“And yet they look so delightfully mysterious,” I said. “This one, for instance?”

“That is an old history of London, with curious plates and maps; rather interesting if one has nothing more amusing to read. But the perennial supply of novels from Mudie’s spoils one for that kind of book.”

“If ever I come to Newhall again, I shall dip into the old history. One is never tired of dead and gone London. But after Mr. Knight’s delightful book any old history must seem very poor. What is my burly friend here?”

“O, a dreadful veterinary-surgeon’s encyclopaedia —The Farmer’s Friend I think it is called; all about the ailments of animals.”

“And the next?”

“The next is an odd volume of the Penny Magazine. Dear aunt Dorothy is rich in odd volumes.”

“And the next — my bulky friend number two — with a cracked leather back and a general tendency to decay?”

“O, that is the Meynell Bible.”

The MEYNELL BIBLE! A hot perspiration broke out upon my face as I knelt at Charlotte Halliday’s feet, with my hand resting lightly on the top of the book.

“The Meynell Bible!” I repeated; and my voice was faintly tremulous, in spite of the effort I made to control myself. “What do you mean by the Meynell Bible?”

“I mean the old family Bible that belonged to my grand-mamma. It was her father’s Bible, you know; and of course he was my great-grandfather — Christian Meynell. Why, how you stare at me, Valentine! Is there anything so wonderful in my having had a great-grandfather?”

“No, darling; but the fact is that I—”

In another moment I should have told her the entire truth; but I remembered just in time that I had pledged myself to profound secrecy with regard to the nature and progress of my investigation, and I had yet to learn whether that pledge did or did not involve the observance of secrecy even with those most interested in my researches. Pending further communication with Sheldon, I was certainly bound to be silent.

“I have a kind of interest in the name of Meynell,” I said, “for I was once engaged in a business matter with people of that name.”

And having thus hoodwinked my beloved with a bouncer, I proceeded to extract the Bible from its shelf. The book was so tightly wedged into its place, that to remove it was like drawing a tooth. It was a noble-looking old volume, blue with the mould of ages, and redolent of a chill dampness like the atmosphere of a tomb.

“I should so like to examine the old book when the candles come in,” I said.

Fortunately for the maintenance of my secret, the darkness was closing in upon us when I discovered the volume, and the room was only fitfully illuminated by the flame that brightened and faded every minute.

I carried the book to a side-table, and Charlotte and I resumed our talk until the candles came, and close behind them uncle Joe. I fear I must have seemed a very inattentive lover during that brief interval, for I could not concentrate my thoughts upon the subject of our discourse. My mind would wander to the strange discovery that I had just made, and I could not refrain from asking myself whether by any extraordinary chance my own dear love should be the rightful claimant to John Haygarth’s hoarded wealth.

I hoped that it might not be so. I hoped that my darling might be penniless rather than the heir to wealth, which, in all likelihood, would create an obstacle strong enough to sever us eternally. I longed to question her about her family, but could not as yet trust myself to broach the subject. And while I doubted and hesitated, honest blustering uncle Joe burst into the room, and aunt Dorothy awoke, and was unutterably surprised to find she had slept so long.

After this came tea; and as I sat opposite my dearest girl I could not choose but remember that gray-eyed Molly, whose miniature had been found in the tulip-wood bureau, and in whose bright face I had seen the likeness of Philip Sheldon’s beautiful stepdaughter. And Mr. Sheldon’s lovely stepdaughter was the lineal descendant of this very Molly. Strange mystery of transmitted resemblances! Here was the sweet face that had bewitched honest, simple-minded Matthew Haygarth reproduced after the lapse of a century.

My Charlotte was descended from a poor little player girl who had smiled on the roisterous populace of Bartholomew Fair. Some few drops of Bohemian blood mingled with the pure life-stream in her veins. It pleased me to think of this; but I derived no pleasure from the idea that Charlotte might possibly be the claimant of a great fortune.

“She may have cousins who would stand before her,” I said to myself; and there was some comfort in the thought.

After tea I asked permission to inspect the old family Bible, much to the astonishment of uncle Joe, who had no sympathy with antiquarian tastes, and marvelled that I should take any interest in so mouldy a volume. I told him, with perfect truth, that such things had always more or less interest for me; and then I withdrew to my little table, where I was provided with a special pair of candles.

“You’ll find the births and deaths of all poor Molly’s ancestors on the first leaf,” said uncle Joe. “Old Christian Meynell was a rare one for jotting down such things; but the ink has gone so pale that it’s about as much as you’ll do to make sense of it, I’ll lay.”

Charlotte looked over my shoulder as I examined the fly-leaf of the family Bible. Even with this incentive to distraction I contrived to be tolerably business-like; and this is the record which I found on the faded page:

“Samuel Matthew Meynell, son of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. March 9, 1796, baptised at St. Giles’s, Cripplegate, in this city.

“Susan Meynell, daughter of Christian and Sarah Meynell, b. June 29, 1798, also baptised in the same church.

“Charlotte Meynell, second daughter of the above Christian and Sarah, b. October 3, 1800, baptised at the above-mentioned church of St. Giles, London.”

Below these entries, in blacker ink and in a different hand-writing — a bold, business-like, masculine caligraphy — came the following:

“Charlotte Meynell married to James Halliday, in the parish church of Barngrave, Yorks. April 15, 1819.

“Thomas Halliday, son of the above James and Charlotte Halliday, b. Jan. 3d, 1821, baptised in the parish church of Barngrave, Feb. 20 in the same year.

“Mary Halliday, daughter of the above-named James and Charlotte Halliday, b. May 27th, 1823, baptised at Barngrave, July 1st in the same year.”

Below this there was an entry in a woman’s penmanship:

“Susan, the beloved sister of C. H., died in London, July 11, 1835.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.

“I came to call sinners, and not the righteous, to repentance.”

This record seemed to hint vaguely at some sad story: “Susan, the beloved sister;” no precise data of the death — no surname! And then those two deprecating sentences, which seemed to plead for the dead.

I had been led to understand that Christian Meynell’s daughters had both died in Yorkshire — one married, the other unmarried.

The last record in the book was the decease of James Halliday, my dear girl’s grandfather.

After pondering long over the strangely-worded entry of Susan Meynell’s death, I reflected that, with the aid of those mysterious powers Hook and Crook, I must contrive to possess myself of an exact copy of this leaf from a family history, if not of the original document. Again my duty to my Sheldon impelled me to be false to all my new-born instincts, and boldly give utterance to another bouncer.

“I am very much interested in a county history now preparing for the press,” I said to my honoured uncle, who was engaged in a hand at cribbage with his wife; “and I really think this old leaf from a family Bible would make a very interesting page in that work.”

I blushed for myself as I felt how shamefully I was imposing upon my newly-found kinsman’s credulity. With scarcely any one but uncle Joe could I have dared to employ so shallow an artifice.

“Would it really, now?” said that confiding innocent.

“Well, I suppose old papers, and letters, and such like, are uncommonly interesting to some folks. I can’t say I care much about ’em myself.”

“Would you have any objection to my taking a copy of these entries?” I asked.

“My word, no, lad; not I. Take half a dozen copies, and welcome, if they can be of any use to you or other people. That’s not much to ask for.”

I thanked my simple host, and determined to write to a stationer at Hull for some tracing-paper by the first post next morning. There was some happiness, at least, in having found this unlooked-for end to my researches. I had a good excuse for remaining longer near Charlotte Halliday.

“It’s only for my poor Mary’s sake I set any value on that old volume,” the farmer said, presently, in a meditative tone. “You see the names there are the names of her relations, not mine; and this place and all in it was hers. Dorothy and I are only interlopers, as you may say, at the best, though I brought my fortune to the old farm, and Dorothy brought her fortune, and between us we’ve made Newhall a much better place than it was in old James Halliday’s time. But there’s something sad in the thought that none of those that were born on the land have left chick or child to inherit it.” Uncle Joseph fell for a while into a pensive reverie, and I thought of that other inheritance, well-nigh fifty times the value of Newhall farm, which is now waiting for a claimant. And again I asked myself, Could it be possible that this sweet girl, whose changeful face had saddened with those old memories, whose innocent heart knew not one sordid desire — could it be indeed she whose fair hand was to wrest the Haygarthian gold from the grip of Crown lawyers?

The sight of that old Bible seemed to have revived Mr. Mercer’s memory of his first wife with unwonted freshness.

“She was a sweet young creature,” he said; “the living picture of our Lottie, and sometimes I fancy it must have been that which made me take to Lottie when she was a little one. I used to see my first wife’s eyes looking up at me out of Lottie’s eyes. I told Tom it was a comfort to me to have the little lass with me, and that’s how they let her come over so often from Hyley. Poor old Tom used to bring her over in his Whitechapel cart, and leave her behind him for a week or so at a stretch. And then, when my Dorothy, yonder, took pity upon a poor lonely widower, she made as much of the little girl as if she’d been her own, and more, perhaps; for, not having any children of her own, she thought them such out-of-the-way creatures, that you couldn’t coddle them and pet them too much. There’s a little baby lies buried in Barngrave churchyard with Tom Halliday’s sister that would have been a noble young man, sitting where you’re sitting, Mr. Hawkehurst, and looking at me as bright as you’re looking, perhaps, if the Lord’s will hadn’t been otherwise. We’ve all our troubles, you see, and that was mine; and if it hadn’t been for Dorothy, life would not have been worth much for me after that time — but my Dorothy is all manner of blessings rolled up in one.”

The farmer looked fondly at his second wife as he said this, and she blushed and smiled upon him with responsive tenderness. I fancy a woman’s blushes and smiles wear longer in these calm solitudes than amid the tumult and clamour of a great city.

Finding my host inclined to dwell upon the past, I ventured to hazard an indirect endeavour to obtain some information respecting that entry in the Bible which had excited my curiosity.

“Miss Susan Meynell died unmarried, I believe?” I said. “I see her death recorded here, but she is described by her Christian name only.”

“Ah, very like,” replied Mr. Mercer, with an air of indifference, which I perceived to be assumed. “Yes, my poor Molly’s aunt Susan died unmarried.”

“And in London? I had been given to understand that she died in Yorkshire.”

I blushed for my own impertinence as I pressed this inquiry. What right had I to be given to understand anything about these honest Meynells? I saw poor uncle Joe’s disconcerted face, and I felt that the hunter of an heir-at-law is apt to become a very obnoxious creature.

“Susan Meynell died in London — the poor lass died in London,” replied Joseph Mercer, gravely; “and now we’ll drop that subject, if you please, my lad. It isn’t a pleasant one.”

After this I could no longer doubt that there was some painful story involved in those two deprecating sentences of the gospel.

It was some time before uncle Joe was quite his own jovial and rather noisy self again, and on this evening we had no whist. I bade my friends good night a little earlier than usual, and departed, after having obtained permission to take a tracing of the fly-leaf as soon as possible.

On this night the starlit sky and lonesome moor seemed to have lost their soothing power. There was a new fever in my mind. The simple plan of the future which I had mapped out for myself was suddenly shattered. The Charlotte of to-night — heiress-at-law to an enormous fortune — ward in Chancery — claimant against the Crown — was a very different person from the simple maid “whom there were none”— or only a doating simpleton in the person of the present writer —“to praise, and very few to love.”

The night before last I had hoped so much; to-night hope had forsaken me. It seemed as if a Titan’s hand had dug a great pit between me and the woman I loved — a pit as deep as the grave.

Philip Sheldon might have consented to give me his stepdaughter unpossessed of a sixpence; but would he give me his stepdaughter with a hundred thousand pounds for her fortune? Alas! no; I know the Sheldonian intellect too well to be fooled by any hope so wild and baseless. The one bright dream of my misused life faded from me in the hour in which I discovered my dearest girl’s claim to the Haygarthian inheritance. But I am not going to throw up the sponge before the fight is over. Time enough to die when I am lying face downward in the ensanguined mire, and feel the hosts of the foemen trampling above my shattered carcass. I will live in the light of my Charlotte’s smiles while I can, and for the rest —“Il ne faut pas dire, fontaine, je ne boirai pas de ton eau.” There is no cup so bitter that a man dare say, I will not drain it to the very dregs. “What must be, shall be — that’s a certain text;” and in the mean time carpe diem. I am all a Bohemian again.

Nov. 5th. After a day’s delay I have obtained my tracing-paper, and made two tracings of the entries in the Meynell Bible, How intercourse with the Sheldonian race inclines one to the duplication of documents! I consider the copying-press of modern civilization the supreme incarnation of man’s distrust of his fellow-men.

I spent this afternoon and evening with my dear love — my last evening in Yorkshire. To-morrow I shall see my Sheldon, and inform him of the very strange termination which has come to my researches. Will he communicate at once with his brother? Will he release me from my oath of secrecy? There is nothing of the masonic secretiveness in my organisation, and I am very weary of the seal that has been set upon my unwary lips. Will Charlotte be told that she is the reverend intestate’s next of kin? These are questions which I ask myself as I sit in the stillness of my room at the Magpie, scribbling this wretched diary of mine, while the church clock booms three solemn strokes in the distance.

O, why did not the reverend intestate marry his housekeeper, and make a will, like other honest citizens, and leave my Charlotte to walk the obscure byways of honest poverty with me? I do believe that I could have been honest; I do believe that I could have been brave and true and steadfast for her dear sake. But it is the office of man to propose, while the Unseen disposes. Perhaps such a youth as mine admits of no redemption. I have written circulars for Horatio Paget. I have been the willing remorseless tool of a man who never eats his dinner without inflicting a wrong upon his fellow-creatures. Can a few moments of maudlin sentimentality, a vague yearning for something brighter and better, a brief impulse towards honesty, inspired by a woman’s innocent eyes — can so little virtue in the present atone for so much guilt in the past? Alas! I fear not.

I had one last brief tête-à-tête with my dear girl while I took the tracing from the old Bible. She sat watching me, and distracting me more or less while I worked; and despite the shadow of doubt that has fallen upon me, I could not be otherwise than happy in her sweet company.

When I came to the record of Susan Meynell’s death, my Charlotte’s manner changed all at once from her accustomed joyousness to a pensive gravity.

“I was very sorry you spoke of Susan Meynell to uncle Joseph,” she said, thoughtfully.

“But why sorry, my dear?”

I had some vague notion as to the cause of this sorrow; but the instincts of the chase impelled me to press the subject. Was I not bound to know every secret in the lives of Matthew Haygarth’s descendants?

“There is a very sad story connected with my aunt Susan — she was my great-aunt, you know,” said Charlotte, with a grave earnest face. “She went away from home, and there was great sorrow. I cannot talk of the story, even to you, Valentine, for there seems something sacred in these painful family secrets. My poor aunt Susan left all her friends, and died many years afterwards in London.”

“She was known to have died unmarried?” I asked. This would be an important question from George Sheldon’s point of sight.

“Yes,” Charlotte replied, blushing crimson.

That blush told me a great deal.

“There was some one concerned in this poor lady’s sorrow,” I said; “some one to blame for all her unhappiness.”

“There was.”

“One whom she loved and trusted, perhaps?”

“Whom she loved and trusted only too well. O, Valentine, must not that be terrible? To confide with all your heart in the person you love, and to find him base and cruel! If my poor aunt had not believed Montagu Kingdon to be true and honourable, she would have trusted her friends a little, instead of trusting so entirely in him. O, Valentine, what am I telling you? I cannot bear to cast a shadow on the dead.”

“My dear love, do you think I cannot pity this injured lady? Do you think I am likely to play the Pharisee, and be eager to bespatter the grave of this poor sufferer? I can almost guess the story which you shrink from telling me — it is one of those sad histories so often acted, so often told. Your aunt loved a person called Montagu Kingdon — her superior in station, perhaps?”

I looked at Charlotte as I said this, and her face told me that I had guessed rightly.

“This Montagu Kingdon admired and loved her,” I said. “He seemed eager to make her his wife, but no doubt imposed secrecy as to his intentions. She accepted his word as that of a true-hearted lover and a gentleman, and in the end had bitter reason to repent her confidence. That is an outline of the story, is it not, Charlotte?”

“I am sure that it was so. I am sure that when she left Newhall she went away to be married,” cried Charlotte, eagerly; “I have seen a letter that proves it — to me, at least. And yet I have heard even mamma speak harshly of her — so long dead and gone off the face of this earth — as if she had deliberately chosen the sad fate which came to her.”

“Is it not possible that Mr. Kingdon did marry Miss Meynell, after all?”

“No,” replied Charlotte, very sadly; “there is no hope of that. I have seen a letter written by my poor aunt years afterwards — a letter that tells much of the cruel truth; and I have heard that Mr. Kingdon came back to Yorkshire and married a rich lady during my aunt’s lifetime.”

“I should like to see that letter,” I said, involuntarily.

“Why, Valentine?” asked my darling, looking at me with sorrowful, wondering eyes, “To me it seems so painful to talk of these things: it is like reopening an old wound.”

“But if the interests of other people require —” I began, in a very blundering manner.

“Whose interest can be served by my showing you my poor aunt’s letter? It would seem like an act of dishonour to the dead.”

What could I say after this — bound hand and foot as I am by my promise to Sheldon?

After a long talk with my sweet one, I borrowed uncle Joe’s dog-cart, and spun across to Barngrave, where I found the little church, beneath whose gray old roof Charlotte Meynell plighted her troth to James Halliday. I took a copy of all entries in the register concerning Mrs. Meynell Halliday and her children, and then went back to Newhall to restore the dog-cart, and to take my last Yorkshire tea at the hospitable old farm-house.

To-morrow I am off to Barlingford, fifteen miles from this village, to take more copies from registries concerning my sweet young heiress — the registries of her father’s marriage, and her own birth. After that I think my case will be tolerably complete, and I can present myself to Sheldon in the guise of a conqueror.

Is it not a great conquest to have made? Is it not almost an act of chivalry for these prosaic days to go forth into the world as a private inquirer, and win a hundred thousand pounds for the lady of one’s love? And yet I wish any one rather than my Charlotte were the lineal descendant of Matthew Haygarth.

Nov. 10th. Here I am in London once more, with my Sheldon in ecstatics, and our affairs progressing marvellously well, as he informs me; but with that ponderous slowness peculiar to all mortal affairs in which the authorities of the realm are in any way concerned.

My work is finished. Hawkehurst the genealogist and antiquarian sinks into Hawkehurst the private individual. I have no more to do but to mind my own business and await the fruition of time in the shape of my reward.

Can I accept three thousand pounds for giving my dearest her birthright? Can I take payment for a service done to her? Surely not: and, on the other hand, can I continue to woo my sweet one, conscious that she is the rightful claimant to a great estate? Can I take advantage of her ignorance, and may it not be said that I traded on my secret knowledge?

Before leaving Yorkshire, I stole one more day from the Sheldon business, in order to loiter just a few hours longer in that northern Arcadia called Newhall farm. What assurance have I that I shall ever re-enter that pleasant dwelling? What hold have I, a wanderer and vagabond, on the future which respectable people map out for themselves with such mathematical precision? And even the respectable people are sometimes out in their reckoning. To snatch the joys of to-day must always be the policy of the adventurer. So I took one more happy afternoon at Newhall. Nor was the afternoon entirely wasted; for, in the course of my farewell visit, I heard more of poor Susan Meynell’s history from honest uncle Joseph. He told me the story during an after-dinner walk, in which he took me the round of his pig-styes and cattle-sheds for the last time, as if he would fain have had them leave their impress on my heart.

“You may see plenty of cattle in Yorkshire,” he remarked, complacently, “but you won’t see many beasts to beat that.”

He pointed to a brown and mountainous mass of inert matter, which he gave me to understand was something in the way of cattle.

“Would you like to see him standing?” he asked, giving the mass a prod with the handle of his walking-stick, which to my cockney mind seemed rather cruel, but which, taken from an agricultural point of view, was no doubt the correct thing. “He can stand. Coom up, Brownie!”

I humbly entreated that the ill-used mass might be allowed to sprawl in undisturbed misery.

“Thorley!” exclaimed Mr. Mercer, laying his finger significantly against the side of his unpretending nose.

I had not the faintest comprehension of my revered uncle-in-law’s meaning; but I said, “O, indeed!” with the accents of admiration.

“Thorley’s Condiment,” said my uncle. “You’ll see some fine animate at the Cattle-show; but if you see a two-year-old ox to beat him, my name is not Joe Mercer.”

After this I had to pay my respects to numerous specimens of the bovine race, all more or less prostrate under the burden of superabundant flesh, all seeming to cry aloud for the treatment of some Banting of the agricultural world.

After we had “done” the cattle-sheds, with heroic resignation on my part, and with enthusiasm on the part of Mr. Mercer, we went a long way to see some rarities in the way of mutton, which commodity was to be found cropping the short grass on a distant upland.

With very little appreciation of the zoological varieties, and with the consciousness that my dear one was sitting in the farm-hou............