ing these, they commenced the gradual ascent of
Roundington Hill, when a sudden sweep of the road brought them in view of
the panorama of the rich Vale of Butterflower.

'There's a snug-looking box,' observed Sponge, as he at length espied a
confused jumble of gable-ends and chimney-pots rising from amidst a clump
of Scotch firs and other trees, looking less like a farmhouse than anything
he had seen.

'That's my house (puff); that's Puddingpote Bower (wheeze),' replied
Crowdey slowly and pompously, adding an 'e' to the syllable, to make it
sound better, the haddocks, hashed mutton, and all the horrors of impromptu
hospitality rushing upon his mind.

Things began to look worse the nearer he got home. He didn't care to
aggravate the old animal into a trot. He again wondered whether Mrs. J.
would be pleased at the success of his mission, or angry at the unexpected
coming.

'Where are the stables?' asked Sponge, as he scanned the in-and-out
irregularities of the building.

'Stables (wheeze), stables (puff),' repeated Crowdey--thinking of his
troubles--of its being washing-day, and Mary Ann, or Murry Ann, as he
called her, the under-butler, being engaged; of Bartholomew Badger having
the horse and fe-_a_-ton to clean, &c.--'stables,' repeated he for the
third time; 'stables are at the back, behind, in fact; you'll see a (puff)
vane--a (wheeze) fox, on the top.'

'Ah, indeed!' replied Mr. Sponge, brightening up, thinking there would be
old hay and corn.

They now came to a half-Swiss, half-Gothic little cottage of a lodge, and
the old horse turned instinctively into the open white gate with pea-green
bands.

'Here's Mrs. Crow--Crow--Crowdey!' gasped Jogglebury, convulsively, as a
tall woman, in flare-up red and yellow stunner tartan, with a swarm of
little children, similarly attired, suddenly appeared at an angle of the
road, the lady handling a great alpaca umbrella-looking parasol in the
stand-and-deliver style.

'What's kept you?' exclaimed she, as the vehicle got within ear-shot.
'What's kept you?' repeated she, in a sharper key, holding her parasol
across the road, but taking no notice of our friend Sponge, who, in truth,
she took for Edgebone, the butcher. 'Oh! you've been after your sticks,
have you?' added she, as her spouse drew the vehicle up alongside of her,
and she caught the contents of the apron-straps.

'My dear (puff)' gasped her husband, 'I've brought Mr. (wheeze) Sponge,'
said he, winking his