that on which we heard the old tinker-mother
relate Christian's history, that we were stopped on our way to the
corner where we usually concealed ourselves, by hearing strange voices
from the winding pathway above us.

"It's a young man," said I.

"It's Christian!" cried Mrs. Hedgehog.

"I feel sure that it is not," said I; "but if you will keep quiet, I
will creep a little forward and see."

I am always in the right, as I make a point of reminding Mrs. Hedgehog
whenever we dispute; and I was right on this occasion.

The lad who spoke was a young gentleman of about seventeen, and no more
like a gipsy than I am. His fair hair was closely cropped, his eyes were
quick and bright, his manner was alert and almost anxious, and though he
was very slight as well as very young, he carried himself with dignity
and some little importance. A lady, much older than himself, was with
him, whom he was helping down the path.

"Take care, Gertrude, take care. There is no hurry, and I believe
there's no one in the wood but ourselves."

"The people at the inn told us that there were gipsies in the
neighbourhood," said the lady; "and oh, Ted! this is exactly the wood I
dreamt of, except the purple and white--"

"Gertrude! What on earth are you after?"

"The flowers, Ted, the flowers in my dream! There they are, a perfect
carpet of them. White--oh, how lovely!--and there, on the other side,
are the purple ones. What are they, dear? I know you are a good
botanist. He always raved about your collection."

"Nonsense, I'm not a botanist. Several other fellows went in for it when
the prize was offered, and all that my collection was good for was his
doing. I never did see any one arrange flowers as he did, I must say.
Every specimen was pressed so as somehow to keep its own way of growing.
And when I did them, a columbine looked as stiff as a dog-daisy. I never
could keep any character in them. Watson--the fellow who drew so
well--made vignettes on the blank pages to lots of the specimens--'Likely
Habitats' we called them. He used to sit with his paint-box in my
window, and Christian used to sit outside the window, on the edge,
dangling his legs, and describing scenes out of his head for Watson to
draw. Watson used to say, 'I wish I could paint with my brush as that
fellow paints with his tongue'--and when the vignettes were admired,
I've heard him say, in his dry way, 'I copied them from Christian's
paintings;' and the fellows used t