a short-paced donkey, with a gypsy behind her, who considered that he
was earning half-a-crown. The red light of the setting sun seemed to
have a portentous meaning, with which the alarming bray of the second
donkey with the log on its foot must surely have some connection. Two
low thatched cottages--the only houses they passed in this lane--seemed
to add to its dreariness; they had no windows to speak of, and the doors
were closed; it was probable that they were inhabited by witches, and it
was a relief to find that the donkey did not stop there.

At last--oh, sight of joy!--this lane, the longest in the world, was
coming to an end, was opening on a broad highroad, where there was
actually a coach passing! And there was a finger-post at the
corner,--she had surely seen that finger-post before,--"To Saint Ogg's,
2 miles." The gypsy really meant to take her home, then; he was probably
a good man, after all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought
that she didn't like coming with him alone. This idea became stronger as
she felt more and more certain that she knew the road quite well, and
she was considering how she might open a conversation with the injured
gypsy, and not only gratify his feelings, but efface the impression of
her cowardice, when, as they reached a crossroad, Maggie caught sight of
some one coming on a white-faced horse.

"Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my father! Oh, father,
father!"

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before her father reached her,
she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's wonder, for he had made a
round from Basset, and had not yet been home.

"Why, what's the meaning o' this?" he said, checking his horse, while
Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her father's stirrup.

"The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gypsy. "She'd come to
our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I was bringing her where she
said her home was. It's a good way to come after being on the tramp all
day."

"Oh yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home," said Maggie,--"a
very kind, good man!"

"Here, then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five shillings.
"It's the best day's work _you_ ever did. I couldn't afford to lose the
little wench; here, lift her up before me."

"Why, Maggie, how's this, how's this?" he said, as they rode along,
while she laid her head against her father and sobbed. "How came you to
be rambling about and lose yourself?"

"Oh,