fore," said the Parson, laying down his knife
and fork. "Bumptious, indeed, though I believe it is not in the
dictionary, has crept into familiar parlance, especially amongst young
folks at school and college."

"Bumptious is bumptious, and gumptious is gumptious," said the landlord,
delighted to puzzle a Parson. "Now the town beadle is bumptious, and
Mrs. Avenel is gumptious."

"She is a very respectable woman," said Mr. Dale, somewhat rebukingly.

"In course, sir, all gumptious folks are; they value themselves on their
respectability, and looks down on their neighbors."

_Parson_, still philologically occupied. "Gumptious--gumptious. I think
I remember the substantive at school--not that my master taught it to
me. 'Gumption,' it means cleverness."

_Landlord_, (doggedly.)--"There's gumption and gumptious! Gumption is
knowing; but when I say that sum un is gumptious, I mean--though that's
more vulgar like--sum un who does not think small beer of hisself. You
take me, sir!"

"I think I do," said the Parson, half-smiling. "I believe the Avenels
have only two of their children alive still--their daughter, who married
Mark Fairfield, and a son who went off to America?"

"Ah, but he made his fortune there, and has come back."

"Indeed! I'm very glad to hear it. He has settled at Lansmere?"

"No, sir. I hear as he's bought a property a long way off. But he comes
to see his parents pretty often--so John tells me--but I can't say that
I ever see him, I fancy Dick doesn't like to be seen by folks who
remember him playing in the kennel."

"Not unnatural," said the Parson indulgently; "but he visits his
parents: he is a good son, at all events, then?"

"I've nothing to say against him. Dick was a wild chap before he took
himself off. I never thought he would make his fortune; but the Avenels
are a clever set. Do you remember poor Nora--the Rose of Lansmere, as
they called her? Ah, no, I think she went up to Lunnun afore your time,
sir."

"Humph!" said the Parson drily. "Well, I think you may take away now. It
will be dark soon, and I'll just stroll out and look about me."

"There's a nice tart coming, sir."

"Thank you, I've dined."

The Parson put on his hat and sallied forth into the streets. He eyed
the houses on either hand with that melancholy and wistful interest with
which, in middle life, we revisit scenes familiar to us in
youth--surprised to find either so little change or so much, and
recalling, by f