it all."

"I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons' old servants."

"Is he? Oh! humph! my master. Mr. Trevanion you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way." And he led me down a
little glen away from the fall. Everybody must have observed that after
he has incurred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise wonderfully;
he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was with me. I talked to
the gardener a coeur ouvert, as the French say; and I did not observe
that his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to draw out my
little history,--my journey, its destination, my schooling under Dr.
Herman, and my father's Great Book. I was only made somewhat suddenly
aware of the familiarity that had sprung up between us when, just as,
having performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream and stood
before an iron gate set in an arch of rock-work, my companion said
simply: "And your name, young gentleman? What's your name?"

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications were
usually made by the visitors of show places, I answered: "Oh! a very
venerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac--Caxton."

"Caxton!" cried the gardener, with some vivacity; "there is a Cumberland
family of that name--"

"That's mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family."

"And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?"

"I am. You have heard of my dear father, then?"

"We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me,--this way;" and my guide,
turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood a
hundred yards before me ere I recovered my surprise.

"Pardon me," said I, "but where are we going, my good friend?"

"Good friend, good friend! Well said, sir. You are going amongst good
friends. I was at college with your father; I loved him well. I knew a
little of your uncle too. My name is Trevanion."

Blind young fool that I was! The moment my guide told his name, I
was struck with amazement at my unaccountable mistake. The small,
insignificant figure took instant dignity; the homely dress, of rough
dark broadcloth, was the natural and becoming dishabille of a country
gentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur became a Scotch terrier
of the rarest breed.

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and patting me on the
shoulder, said,--

"It is the gardener you must apologize to, not me. He is a very handsome
fellow, six feet hi