ge in dignified silence; suffering, however, an
expression of lofty scorn to rest on his countenance. Mrs Brown
observed this, and her irate spirit was still further chafed by it. She
meditated giving utterance to some withering remarks, while, with
agitated fingers, she untied the string of the little pot of
cranberry-jam. Worthy Mrs Brown was particularly fond of
cranberry-jam. She had put up this pot in her own basket expressly for
her own private use. She now opened it with the determination to enjoy
it to the full, to smack her lips very much and frequently, and offer
none of it to Hobbs. When the cover was removed she gazed into the pot
with a look of intense horror, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell back
in a dead faint.

This extraordinary result is easily accounted for. Almost every human
being has one grand special loathing. There is everywhere some creature
which to some individual is an object of dread--a creature to be shrunk
from and shuddered at. Mrs Brown's horror was frogs. Jacky knew this
well. He also knew of Mrs Brown's love for cranberry-jam, and her
having put up a special pot. To abstract the pot, replace it by a
similar pot with a live frog imprisoned therein, and then retire to
chuckle in solitude and devour the jam, was simple and natural. That
the imp had done this; that he had watched with delight the deceived
woman pant up Glen Ogle with the potted frog on her arm and perspiration
on her brow; that he had asked for a little cranberry-jam on the way,
with an expression of countenance that almost betrayed him; and that he
had almost shrieked with glee, when he observed the anxiety with which
Mrs Brown--having tripped and fallen--opened her basket and smiled to
observe that the pot was _not_ broken; that the imp, we say, had been
guilty of all this, was known only to himself; but much of it became
apparent to the mind of Hobbs, when, on Mrs Brown's fainting, he heard
a yell of triumph, and, on looking up, beheld Master Jacky far up the
heights, clearly defined against the bright sky, and celebrating the
success of his plot with a maniacal edition of the Highland fling.

At a quarter-past four all the party assembled at the inn except Mr
Sudberry.

Five arrived--no Mr Sudberry. The coach could not wait! The
gentlemen, in despair, rushed up the bed of the stream, and found him
fishing, in a glow of excitement, with his basket and all his pockets
full of splendid trout.

The