ds,
and by rows of dreary and desolate mills, occur to break the blank grey
monotony of the landscape. Walter was looking out of the window with
curious eyes, and he was wondering what life in such conditions could be
like, when the train uttered a despairing scream, and reached a station
which the porter announced as Fuzby-le-Mud. Walter jumped down, and his
hand was instantly seized by Kenrick with a warm and affectionate grasp.

"So you're really here, Walter. I can hardly believe it. I half repent
having brought you to such a place; but I was _so_ dull."

"I shall enjoy it exceedingly, Ken, with you. Shall I give my
portmanteau to some man to take up to the village?"

"O, no; here's a--well, I may as well call it a _cart_ at once--to take
it up in. The curate lent it me, and he calls it a pony-carriage; but
it is, you see, nothing more or less than a cart. I hope you won't be
ashamed to ride in it."

"I should think not," said Walter gaily, mounting into the curious
little oblong wooden vehicle.

"It isn't very far," said Kenrick, "and I daresay you don't know any one
about here; so it won't matter."

"Pooh! Ken, as if I minded such nonsense." Indeed, Walter would not
have thought twice about the conveyance, if Kenrick had not harped upon
it so much, and seemed so much ashamed of it, and mortified at being
obliged to use it. "Shall I drive?" asked Walter.

"Drive? Why, the pony is stone blind, and as scraggy as a scarecrow, so
there's not much driving to be had out of him. Fancy if the
aristocratic Power, or some other Saint Winifred's fellow saw us! Why,
it would supply Henderson with jokes for six weeks," said Kenrick,
getting up and touching the old pony with his whip. Both he and Walter
were wholly unconscious that their equipage _had_ been seen, and
contemptuously scrutinised by one of their schoolfellows. Unknown to
Walter, Jones was in the train; and, after a long stare at the
pony-chaise, had flung himself back in his seat to indulge in a long
guffaw, and in anticipating the malicious amusement he should feel in
retailing at Saint Winifred's the description of Kenrick's horse and
carriage. Petty malignity was a main feature of Jones's mind.

"That is Fuzby," said Kenrick laconically, pointing to a straggling
village from which a few lights were beginning to glimmer; "and I wish
it were buried twenty thousand fathoms under the sea."

Ungracious as the speech may seem, it cannot be wo