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were halcyon days for the world-weary man--delightful days of sketching
in the open air in an environment of natural beauty; peaceful evenings
spent with his simple-minded hosts and friends; and, happiest of all,
the hours in which he basked in the smiles and blushes of pretty Sarah
Hoggins, carrying home her pails of milk, helping her to churn the
butter, or telling to her wondering ears stories of the great world
outside her ken, while the sunset steeped the orchard trees above their
heads in glory.

To Sarah he was known as "Mr Jones"; and to her innocent mind it never
occurred that he could be other than the painter he professed to be.
The villagers, however, were sceptical. True, the stranger was a
pleasant man who always gave them a cheery "good-day," and gossiped with
them in the friendliest manner. But that there was some mystery
connected with him, all agreed. "Painter chaps" were notoriously poor,
and this man always seemed to have plenty of money to fling about. Then,
he would disappear periodically, and always returned with more money.
Where did he go, and how did he get his gold? There could be little
doubt about it. This handsome, mysterious, pleasant-tongued stranger
must be a highwayman; for it was a fact that every time he was absent, a
coach or a chaise was held up in the neighbourhood and its occupants
relieved of their valuables.

Suspicion became certainty when Mr Jones bought a piece of land in their
village and began to build the finest house in the whole district, a
house which must cost, in their bucolic view, a "mint o' money." But Mr
Jones simply smiled at their suspicions, and made himself more agreeable
than ever. He loved the farmer's daughter, and she made no concealment
of her love for him, and nothing else mattered. He had won his
"beggar-maid," and happiness was at last within his grasp.

When he asked his hosts for the hand of their daughter in marriage, the
good lady was indignant. "Marry Sarah!" she exclaimed. "What, to a fine
gentleman? No, indeed; no happiness can come from such a marriage!"

But the farmer for once put his foot down. "Yes," he said, "he shall
marry her. The lass loves him dearly; and has he not house and land,
too, and plenty of money to keep her?" And thus it came to pass that one
October day the church-bells of Bolas rang a merry peal; the villagers
put on their gala clothes; and, amid general rejoicing, qualified by not
a few dark hints and forebodings, S