wife already? Many have done the thing
hereabouts of late.'

Having paid a visit to the graves of his relatives, the sailor next day
went along the straight road which, then a lane, now a highway, conducted
to the curious little inland town named by the Havenpool man. It is
unnecessary to describe Oozewood on the South-Avon. It has a railway at
the present day; but thirty years of steam traffic past its precincts
have hardly modified its original features. Surrounded by a sort of
fresh-water lagoon, dividing it from meadows and coppice, its ancient
thatch and timber houses have barely made way even in the front street
for the ubiquitous modern brick and slate. It neither increases nor
diminishes in size; it is difficult to say what the inhabitants find to
do, for, though trades in woodware are still carried on, there cannot be
enough of this class of work nowadays to maintain all the householders,
the forests around having been so greatly thinned and curtailed. At the
time of this tradition the forests were dense, artificers in wood
abounded, and the timber trade was brisk. Every house in the town,
without exception, was of oak framework, filled in with plaster, and
covered with thatch, the chimney being the only brick portion of the
structure. Inquiry soon brought Roger the sailor to the door of Wall,
the timber-dealer referred to, but it was some time before he was able to
gain admission to the lodging of his sister, the people having plainly
received directions not to welcome strangers.

She was sitting in an upper room on one of the lath-backed,
willow-bottomed 'shepherd's' chairs, made on the spot then as to this
day, and as they were probably made there in the days of the Heptarchy.
In her lap was an infant, which she had been suckling, though now it had
fallen asleep; so had the young mother herself for a few minutes, under
the drowsing effects of solitude. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she
awoke, started up with a glad cry, and ran to the door, opening which she
met her brother on the threshold.

'O, this is merry; I didn't expect 'ee!' she said. 'Ah, Roger--I thought
it was John.' Her tones fell to disappointment.

The sailor kissed her, looked at her sternly for a few moments, and
pointing to the infant, said, 'You mean the father of this?'

'Yes, my husband,' said Edith.

'I hope so,' he answered.

'Why, Roger, I'm married--of a truth am I!' she cried.

'Shame upon 'ee, if true! If not