ich John
held out to him.

"There lies the image of our past and of our future," cried Alleyne, as
they rode on upon their way. "Now, which is better, to till God's earth,
to have happy faces round one's knee, and to love and be loved, or
to sit forever moaning over one's own soul, like a mother over a sick
babe?"

"I know not about that," said John, "for it casts a great cloud over me
when I think of such matters. But I know that my crown was well spent,
for the man had the look of a very holy person. As to the other, there
was nought holy about him that I could see, and it would be cheaper for
me to pray for myself than to give a crown to one who spent his days in
digging for lettuces."

Ere Alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road a
lady's carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion upon
the outer one. Very fine and rich it was, with beams painted and gilt,
wheels and spokes carved in strange figures, and over all an arched
cover of red and white tapestry. Beneath its shade there sat a stout
and elderly lady in a pink cote-hardie, leaning back among a pile of
cushions, and plucking out her eyebrows with a small pair of silver
tweezers. None could seem more safe and secure and at her ease than this
lady, yet here also was a symbol of human life, for in an instant, even
as Alleyne reined aside to let the carriage pass, a wheel flew out
from among its fellows, and over it all toppled--carving, tapestry
and gilt--in one wild heap, with the horses plunging, the postilion
shouting, and the lady screaming from within. In an instant Alleyne and
John were on foot, and had lifted her forth all in a shake with fear,
but little the worse for her mischance.

"Now woe worth me!" she cried, "and ill fall on Michael Easover of
Romsey! for I told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must needs
gainsay me, like the foolish daffe that he is."

"I trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady," said Alleyne,
conducting her to the bank, upon which John had already placed a
cushion.

"Nay, I have had no scath, though I have lost my silver tweezers. Now,
lack-a-day! did God ever put breath into such a fool as Michael Easover
of Romsey? But I am much beholden to you, gentle sirs. Soldiers ye are,
as one may readily see. I am myself a soldier's daughter," she added,
casting a somewhat languishing glance at John, "and my heart ever goes
out to a brave man."

"We are indeed fresh from Spain," quoth