ron neglected to return it at the time appointed, and
since then no more loans have been made. The cauldron, which is of
copper, is now preserved in Frensham parish church. It is two feet
in diameter, and stands on an iron trivet.

After the road had ascended some way, all trees disappeared. The
scenery was as wild and desolate as any in Scotland. On all sides
heathery slopes, in the evening light a broken patch of sand
showed white, almost phosphorescent, through contrast with the
black ling. A melancholy bird piped. Otherwise all was still. The
richly-wooded weald, with here and there a light twinkling on it,
lay far below, stretching to Lewes. When the high-road nearly
reached the summit, it was carried in a curve along the edge of
a strange depression, a vast basin in the sand-hills, sinking
three hundred feet to a marshy bottom full of oozing springs.
This is termed the Devil's Punch-Bowl. The modern road is carried
on a lower level, and is banked up against the steep incline. The
old road was not thus protected and ran considerably higher.

The night was gathering in, fold on fold, and obscuring all. The
Punch-Bowl that the Broom-Squire and the boy had on their right
was a bowl brimming with naught save darkness. Its depths could
not be fathomed by the eye at that time of night, nor did any
sound issue from it save a hissing as though some fluid were
seething in the bowl; yet was this produced solely by the wind
swirling in it among the harsh branches of the heather.

"So your mother don't like your drawing and painting," said the
Broom-Squire.

"No, Bideabout, she and father be terrible on at me to become a
publican, and carry along with the Ship, after father's got old
and gived up. But I don't fancy it; in fact, I hate the thought
of it. Of course," added the boy; "if they forces me to it, I must.
But anyhow I wouldn't like to have that there Ship sign at our door
so bad painted as she be. I could do better if I had the paints."

"Oh! drinkers don't care for beautiful pictures at the door, but
for good ale within."

"I don't like that there ship, and I wouldn't stand it--if the
inn were mine."

"You're a fool," said the Broom-Squire contemptuously. "Here's
the spot where the turn comes off the road to my house. Mind
where you walk, and don't roll over down the Punch-Bowl; it's all
a bog at the bottom."

"There's no light anywhere," observed the boy.

"No--no winders look this way. You can't say if