with
authority, the writer of the above letter and myself.

THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON.

CHAPTER I.

THE MAKING OF THE LINCH-PIN--THE SOUND SLEEPER--BREAKFAST--THE
POSTILLION'S DEPARTURE.

I awoke at the first break of day, and, leaving the postillion fast
asleep, stepped out of the tent. The dingle was dank and dripping. I
lighted a fire of coals, and got my forge in readiness. I then ascended
to the field, where the chaise was standing as we had left it on the
previous evening. After looking at the cloud-stone near it, now cold,
and split into three pieces, I set about prying narrowly into the
condition of the wheel and axle-tree--the latter had sustained no damage
of any consequence, and the wheel, as far as I was able to judge, was
sound, being only slightly injured in the box. The only thing requisite
to set the chaise in a travelling condition appeared to be a linch-pin,
which I determined to make. Going to the companion wheel, I took out the
linch-pin, which I carried down with me to the dingle, to serve me as a
model.

I found Belle by this time dressed, and seated near the forge: with a
slight nod to her like that which a person gives who happens to see an
acquaintance when his mind is occupied with important business, I
forthwith set about my work. Selecting a piece of iron which I thought
would serve my purpose, I placed it in the fire, and plying the bellows
in a furious manner, soon made it hot; then seizing it with the tongs, I
laid it on my anvil, and began to beat it with my hammer, according to
the rules of my art. The dingle resounded with my strokes. Belle sat
still, and occasionally smiled, but suddenly started up and retreated
towards her encampment, on a spark which I purposely sent in her
direction alighting on her knee. I found the making of a linch-pin no
easy matter; it was, however, less difficult than the fabrication of a
pony-shoe; my work, indeed, was much facilitated by my having another pin
to look at. In about three-quarters of an hour I had succeeded tolerably
well, and had produced a linch-pin which I thought would serve. During
all this time, notwithstanding the noise which I was making, the
postillion never showed his face. His non-appearance at first alarmed
me: I was afraid he might be dead, but, on looking into the tent, I found
him still buried in the soundest sleep. "He must surely be descended
from one of the seven sleepers," said I, as I turned away and