er, occupied two or three of the finest farms in
the neighbourhood. He made his money in a waggon--a curious place, you
will say; why so? Have you ever seen the dingy, dark china-closets they
call offices in the City? Have you ever ascended the dirty, unscrubbed,
disgraceful staircase that leads to a famous barrister's "chambers"?
These are far less desirable, surely, than a seat in a waggon in a
beautiful meadow or cornfield. Old Duck, being too ponderous to walk,
was driven about in a waggon, sitting at the rear with his huge, short
legs dangling down; and, the waggon being halted in a commanding
position, he overlooked his men at work.

One day he was put in a cart instead, and the carter walking home beside
the horse, and noting what a pull it was for him up the hills, and
drawling along half asleep, quite forgot his master, and dreamed he had
a load of stones. By-and-by, he pulled out the bar, and shot Old Duck
out. "A shot me out," grumbled the old man, "as if I'd a been a load of
flints."

Riding about in this rude chariot the old fellow had amassed
considerable wealth--his reputation for money was very great indeed--and
his son John would, of course, come in for it.

John felt sure of Mr. and Mrs. Iden, but about Amaryllis he did not
know. The idea that she had dropped "summat" on his hat raised his
spirits immensely.

Now Amaryllis was not yet beautiful--she was too young; I do not think
any girl is really beautiful so young--she was highly individualized,
and had a distinct character, as it were, in her face and figure. You
saw at a glance that there was something about her very different from
other girls, something very marked, but it was not beauty yet.

Whether John thought her handsome, or saw that she would be, or what, I
do not know; or whether he looked "forrard," as he would have said.

"Heigh for a lass with a tocher!"

John had never read Burns, and would not have known that tocher meant
dowry; nor had he seen the advice of Tennyson--

"Doesn't thee marry for money,
But go where money lies."

but his native intelligence needed no assistance from the poets,
coronetted or otherwise.

It was patent to everyone that her father, Iden, was as poor as the
raggedest coat in Christendom could make him; but it was equally well
known and a matter of public faith, that her grandfather, the great
miller and baker, Lord Lardy-Cake, as the boys called him derisively,
had