sir; yes, sir, that's the very word. Well, really, I
hardly know what to say."

"Say nothing, Mr Gramp."

"You did tell the doctor, sir?"

"Yes, I told uncle."

"Hum! I'm going to call at the Little Manor to see the doctor about the
tall eight-day. Perhaps I'd better consult him."

"Well, yes, speak to uncle if you like, but go by what he says."

The clockmaker nodded, and went on with his work, and from looking on,
Vane came to helping, and so an hour passed away, when it suddenly
occurred to him that Aunt Hannah had said something about a message she
wanted him to take, so he had unwillingly to leave the clock-chamber.

"Good-day, sir, good-day. I shall see you this evening."

"Yes, of course," said Vane; and then, as he hurried down the stairs, it
seemed as if there was to be quite a vexatious re-opening of the case.

"I do wish I had not touched the old thing," muttered Vane, as he went
back. "I couldn't offer him half-a-crown to hold his tongue.
Clockmaker's too big."

But he did not see the clockmaker again that day, for, as he entered the
little drawing-room--

"My dear," cried Aunt Hannah, "I was wishing that you would come. I
want you to go over to Lenby for me, and take this packet--a bottle,
mind, for Mrs Merry. It's a liniment your uncle has made up for her
rheumatism."

"Mrs Merry, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear, at the far end of the village; she's quite a martyr to
her complaint, and I got your uncle to call and see her last time you
were out for a drive. Have the pony if you like."

"Yes, take her, boy," said the doctor. "She is getting too fat with
good living. No; I forgot she was to be taken to the blacksmith's to be
shod this afternoon."

"All right, uncle, I'll walk over," cried Vane, "I shall enjoy it."

"Well, it will not do you any harm. Go across the rough land at the
edge of the forest. You may find a few ferns worth bringing for the
greenhouse. And pray try for a few fungi."

Vane nodded, thrust the packet in his breast, and, taking trowel and
basket, he started for his three-miles cross-country walk to Lenby, a
tiny village, famous for its spire, which was invisible till it was
nearly reached, the place lying in a nook in the wold hills, which, in
that particular part, were clothed with high beeches of ancient growth.

The late autumn afternoon was glorious, and the little town was soon
left behind, the lane followed for a time, but no gipsy van or cart
visible, tho