ssed mine, and whom nothing ever puzzled, explained that I
came from the same old stock as the brothers Phineas and Giles
Fletcher. Upon which Mr. Charles, who till now had somewhat overlooked
me, took off his hat, and congratulated me on my illustrious descent.

"That man has evidently seen a good deal of the world," said John,
smiling; "I wonder what the world is like!"

"Did you not see something of it as a child?"

"Only the worst and lowest side; not the one I want to see now. What
business do you think that Mr. Charles is? A clever man, anyhow; I
should like to see him again."

"So should I."

Thus talking at intervals and speculating upon our new acquaintance, we
strolled along till we came to a spot called by the country people,
"The Bloody Meadow," from being, like several other places in the
neighbourhood, the scene of one of those terrible slaughters chronicled
in the wars of the Roses. It was a sloping field, through the middle
of which ran a little stream down to the meadow's end, where, fringed
and hidden by a plantation of trees, the Avon flowed. Here, too, in all
directions, the hay-fields lay, either in green swathes, or tedded, or
in the luxuriously-scented quiles. The lane was quite populous with
waggons and hay-makers--the men in their corduroys and blue hose--the
women in their trim jackets and bright calamanco petticoats. There
were more women than men, by far, for the flower of the peasant youth
of England had been drafted off to fight against "Bonyparty." Still
hay-time was a glorious season, when half our little town turned out
and made holiday in the sunshine.

"I think we will go to a quieter place, John. There seems a crowd down
in the meadow; and who is that man standing on the hay-cart, on the
other side the stream?"

"Don't you remember the bright blue coat? 'Tis Mr. Charles. How he's
talking and gesticulating! What can he be at?"

Without more ado John leaped the low hedge, and ran down the slope of
the Bloody Meadow. I followed less quickly.

There, of a surety, stood our new friend, on one of the
simple-fashioned hay-carts that we used about Norton Bury, a low
framework on wheels, with a pole stuck at either of the four corners.
He was bare-headed, and his hair hung in graceful curls, well powdered.
I only hope he had honestly paid the tax, which we were all then
exclaiming against--so fondly does custom cling to deformity. Despite
the powder, the blue coat, and t