ts, and brindled slugs with
yellow stripes; or on a summer eve the cockroach and the carrion-beetle.

At the back, however, and above the road which Cheeseman travelled in
his pony-chaise, was a range of rooms still fit to dwell in, though
poorly furnished, and floored with stone. In better times these had been
the domain of the house-keeper and the butler, the cook and the other
upper servants, who had minded their duty and heeded their comfort more
truly than the master and mistress did. For the downfall of this family,
as of very many others, had been chiefly caused by unwise marriage.
Instead of choosing sensible and active wives to look after their home
affairs and regulate the household, the Carnes for several generations
now had wedded flighty ladies of good birth and pretty manners, none
of whom brought them a pipkinful of money, while all helped to spend a
potful. Therefore their descendant was now living in the kitchens, and
had no idea how to make use of them, in spite of his French education;
of comfort also he had not much idea, which was all the better for him;
and he scarcely knew what it was to earn and enjoy soft quietude.

One night, when the summer was in full prime, and the weather almost
blameless, this young Squire Carne rode slowly back from Springhaven to
his worn-out castle. The beauty of the night had kept him back, for
he hated to meet people on the road. The lingering gossips, the tired
fagot-bearers, the youths going home from the hay-rick, the man with
a gun who knows where the hares play, and beyond them all the
truant sweethearts, who cannot have enough of one another, and wish
"good-night" at every corner of the lane, till they tumble over one
another's cottage steps--all these to Caryl Carne were a smell to be
avoided, an eyesore to shut the eyes at. He let them get home and pull
their boots off, and set the frying-pan a-bubbling--for they ended the
day with a bit of bacon, whenever they could cash or credit it--and then
he set forth upon his lonely ride, striking fear into the heart of any
bad child that lay awake.

"Almost as good as France is this," he muttered in French, though for
once enjoying the pleasure of good English air; "and better than France
would it be, if only it were not cut short so suddenly. There will come
a cold wind by-and-by, or a chilly black cloud from the east, and then
all is shivers and rawness. But if it only remained like this, I could
forgive it for pro