friend, she thought it better to keep him apart. She was a
spirited woman, who would be minded, and Harold knew he must submit, and
that he had behaved very ill. Ellen told him too how much Alfred had
been distressed about the pony, and though he would not shew her that he
cared, it made him go straight up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepish
face, say, 'I say, Alf, the pony's all right. I only gave him one cut to
get him off. He'd never go at all if he didn't know his master.'

'He'd go fast enough for my voice,' said Alfred.

'You know I'd never go for to beat him,' continued Harold; 'but it was
enough to vex a chap--wasn't it?--to have Mother coming and lugging one
off from the carrying, and away from the supper and all. Women always
grudge one a bit of fun!'

'Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,' said Alfred.
'Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so taken up
with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have it he's a
convict?'

'A convict! if Ellen says that again!' cried Harold; 'no more a convict
than she is.'

'What is he, then? Where does he come from?'

'His name is Paul Blackthorn,' said Harold; 'and he's the queerest chap I
ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a prong than the
farmer's old sow till I shewed him.'

'But where did he come from?' repeated Alfred.

'He walked all the way from Piggot's turnpike yesterday,' said Harold.
'He's looking for work.'

'And before that?'

'He'd been in the Union out--oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it's a
name in the Postal Guide.'

'Well, but you've not said who he is,' said Ellen.

'Who? why, I tell you, he's Paul Blackthorn.'

'But I suppose he had a father and mother,' said Ellen.

'No,' said Harold.

'No!' Ellen and Alfred cried out together.

'Not as ever he heard tell of,' said Harold composedly, as if this were
quite natural and common.

'And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!' said
Ellen, in horror.

'D'ye think I'd care for stuff like that?' said Harold. 'Why, he
sings--he sings better than Jack Lyte! He's learnt to sing, you know.
And he's such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like a big pig
on his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count the scraps
after we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to know how long our
withered cyder apples had come to life!'

Such talents for amusing others evidently far ou