shes fear. Confidence in the beloved blots out all mistrust
as to the future.

But in this case there was no love, nothing to inspire confidence;
and Mehetabel looked forward with vague alarm, almost with a
premonition of evil.

Jonas was in no mood for meditation. He had imbibed freely at the
inn, and was heavy, disposed to sleep, and only prevented from
dozing by the necessity he was under of keeping the lazy cob in
movement.

For if Jonas was in no meditative mood, the old horse was, and he
halted at intervals to ponder over the load he was drawing, and
ask why on this occasion he had to drag uphill two persons instead
of one.

The sun had set before the couple left the Ship.

The road ascended, at first gradually, then at a more rapid incline.
The cob could not be induced to trot by word or whip; and the walk
of a horse is slower than that of a man.

"It's bostall (a steep ascent, in the Wealden dialect) till we
come to the gallows," muttered Jonas; "then we have the drove-road
down into the Punch-Bowl."

Mehetabel tightened her shawl about her shoulders and throat. The
evening was chilly for the time of the year. Much rain had fallen,
and the air was charged with moisture, that settled in cold dew on
the cart, on the harness, on Bideabout's glazed hat, on the bride's
clothing, bathing her, all things, as in the tears of silent sorrow.

"One of us must get out and walk," said the bridegroom. "Old
Clutch--that's the 'oss--is twenty-five, and there's your box and
bundle behind."

He made no attempt to dismount, but looked sideways at the bride.

"If you'll pull up I'll get out and walk," she answered. "I shall
be glad to do so. The dew falls like rain, and I am chilled to the
marrow."

"Right then," assented the Broom-Squire, and drew the rein.

Mehetabel descended from her seat in the cart. In so doing
something fell on the road from her bosom. She stooped and picked
it up.

"Wots that?" asked Jonas, and pointed to the article with his
whip, that was flourished with a favor of white ribbons.

"It is a present father has made me," answered Mehetabel. "I was
in a hurry--and not accustomed to pockets, so I just put it into
my bosom. I ought to have set it in a safer place, in the new
pocket made to my gown. I'll do that now. Its money."

"Money!" repeated Bideabout. "How much may it be?"

"I have not looked."

"Then look at it, once now (at once)."

He switched the whip with its white favor abo