ted better." "Would I rather have wine or spirits? No, I thank
you; such ale as this is fit for a king."

Here Anselo's keen eye suddenly rested on something which he understood.

"What a beautiful little rifle! That's what I call a _rinkno yag-engree_
[pretty gun]."

"Has it been a _wafedo wen_ [hard winter], Anselo?"

"It has been a dreadful winter, sir. We have been hard put to it
sometimes for food. It's dreadful to think of. I've acti'lly seen the
time when I was almost desperated, and if I'd had such a gun as that I'm
afraid, if I'd been tempted, I could a-found it in my heart to knock over
a pheasant."

I looked sympathetically at Anselo. The idea of his having been brought
to the very brink of such a terrible temptation and awful crime was
touching. He met the glance with the expression of a good man, who had
done no more than his duty, closed his eyes, and softly shook his head.
Then he took another glass of ale, as if the memory of the pheasants or
something connected with the subject had been too much for him, and
spoke:--

"I came here on my horse. But he's an ugly old white punch. So as not
to discredit you, I left him standing before a gentleman's house, two
doors off."

Here Anselo paused. I acknowledged this touching act of thoughtful
delicacy by raising my glass. He drank again, then resumed:--

"But I feel uneasy about leaving a horse by himself in the streets of
London. He'll stand like a driven nail wherever you put him--but there's
always plenty of claw-hammers to draw such nails."

"Don't be afraid, Anselo. The park-keeper will not let anybody take him
through the gates. I'll pay for him if he goes."

But visions of a stolen horse seemed to haunt Anselo. One would have
thought that something of the kind had been familiar to him. So I sent
for the velveteen coat, and, folding it on his arm, he mounted the old
white horse, while waving an adieu with the heavy-handled whip, rode away
in the mist, and was seen no more.

Farewell, farewell, thou old brown velveteen! I had thee first in
by-gone years, afar, hunting ferocious fox and horrid hare, near
Brighton, on the Downs, and wore thee well on many a sketching tour to
churches old and castles dark or gray, when winter went with all his
raines wete. Farewell, my coat, and benedicite! I bore thee over France
unto Marseilles, and on the steamer where we took aboard two hundred
Paynim pilgrims of Mahound. Farewell, my coat