were many persons at the shop-doors and at the windows of upper rooms.
On the sward, a little in advance of the tree, but beneath its shadow,
stood the musician, and in that musician Kenelm recognized the wanderer
from whose talk he had conceived the idea of the pedestrian excursion
which had already brought him into a very awkward position. The
instrument on which the singer accompanied himself was a guitar, and his
song was evidently a love-song, though, as it was now drawing near to
its close, Kenelm could but imperfectly guess at its general meaning.
He heard enough to perceive that its words were at least free from the
vulgarity which generally characterizes street ballads, and were yet
simple enough to please a very homely audience.

When the singer ended there was no applause; but there was evident
sensation among the audience,--a feeling as if something that had given
a common enjoyment had ceased. Presently the white Pomeranian dog, who
had hitherto kept himself out of sight under the seat of the elm-tree,
advanced, with a small metal tray between his teeth, and, after looking
round him deliberately, as if to select whom of the audience should
be honoured with the commencement of a general subscription, gravely
approached Kenelm, stood on his hind legs, stared at him, and presented
the tray.

Kenelm dropped a shilling into that depository, and the dog, looking
gratified, took his way towards the tea-gardens. Lifting his hat, for he
was, in his way, a very polite man, Kenelm approached the singer, and,
trusting to the alteration in his dress for not being recognized by a
stranger who had only once before encountered him he said,--

"Judging by the little I heard, you sing very well, sir. May I ask who
composed the words?"

"They are mine," replied the singer.

"And the air?"

"Mine too."

"Accept my compliments. I hope you find these manifestations of genius
lucrative?"

The singer, who had not hitherto vouchsafed more than a careless glance
at the rustic garb of the questioner, now fixed his eyes full upon
Kenelm, and said, with a smile, "Your voice betrays you, sir. We have
met before."

"True; but I did not then notice your guitar, nor, though acquainted
with your poetical gifts, suppose that you selected this primitive
method of making them publicly known."

"Nor did I anticipate the pleasure of meeting you again in the character
of Hobnail. Hist! let us keep each other's secret. I am known her