nd her, so that his course was
largely determined by the windings of the road he traversed. Of one
general proposition he was absolutely convinced. "There's something
Juicy wrong with 'em," said he--once even aloud. But what it was he
could not imagine. He recapitulated the facts. "Miss Beaumont--brother
and sister--and the stoppage to quarrel and weep--" it was perplexing
material for a young man of small experience. There was no exertion he
hated so much as inference, and after a time he gave up any attempt
to get at the realities of the case, and let his imagination go free.
Should he ever see her again? Suppose he did--with that other chap not
about. The vision he found pleasantest was an encounter with her, an
unexpected encounter at the annual Dancing Class 'Do' at the Putney
Assembly Rooms. Somehow they would drift together, and he would dance
with her again and again. It was a pleasant vision, for you must
understand that Mr. Hoopdriver danced uncommonly well. Or again, in the
shop, a sudden radiance in the doorway, and she is bowed towards the
Manchester counter. And then to lean over that counter and murmur,
seemingly apropos of the goods under discussion, "I have not forgotten
that morning on the Portsmouth road," and lower, "I never shall forget."

At Northchapel Mr. Hoopdriver consulted his map and took counsel and
weighed his course of action. Petworth seemed a possible resting-place,
or Pullborough; Midhurst seemed too near, and any place over the Downs
beyond, too far, and so he meandered towards Petworth, posing himself
perpetually and loitering, gathering wild flowers and wondering why they
had no names--for he had never heard of any--dropping them furtively
at the sight of a stranger, and generally 'mucking about.' There
were purple vetches in the hedges, meadowsweet, honeysuckle, belated
brambles--but the dog-roses had already gone; there were green and red
blackberries, stellarias, and dandelions, and in another place white
dead nettles, traveller's-joy, clinging bedstraw, grasses flowering,
white campions, and ragged robins. One cornfield was glorious with
poppies, bright scarlet and purple white, and the blue corn-flowers were
beginning. In the lanes the trees met overhead, and the wisps of hay
still hung to the straggling hedges. Iri one of the main roads he
steered a perilous passage through a dozen surly dun oxen. Here and
there were little cottages, and picturesque beer-houses with the vivid
b