e modest little lakeside village,
which, in deference to its shy ways, we shall call Nestletown, did its
best to show its appreciation of the weather. Its windows lighted up
brilliantly in the slanting sunlight, and its two spires, Baptist and
Methodist, reaching up through the yellow foliage, piously rivalled each
other in raising their shining points to the sky. The roads were
remarkably fine at that time; yet it seemed that almost the only persons
who, on this special afternoon, cared to drive out and enjoy them were
our friends in the open carriage.

The fine old equipage rolled along at first without a sound beyond the
whir of its wheels and the regular quadruple beat of the horses' hoofs;
and everything appeared to be very placid and quiet. But how many
interests were represented, and how different they were!

First, the horses: while vaguely wishing Jack would loosen his hold, and
that the hard iron something in their mouths would snap in two and
relieve them, they were enjoying their own speed, taking in great
draughts of fine air, keeping their eyes open and their ears ready for
any startling thing that might leap from the rustling bushes along the
drive, or from the shadows of the road-side trees, and longing in an
elegant, well-fed way for the plentiful supper that awaited them at
home. Next was the group of little belated insects that, tempted by the
glittering sunlight, happened to go along, alighting now on the
carriage, now on Jack, and now on the horses. Not being horseflies, they
were not even noticed by the span,--yet they had business of their own,
whatever it could have been so late in the season, and were briskly
attending to it. Next, there was Jack,--good sailor Jack,--sitting
upright, soberly dressed in snug-fitting clothes, and a high black
stove-pipe hat, when at heart he longed to wear his tarpaulin and move
about on his sea-legs again. His only consolation was to feel the
carriage roll and pitch over the few uneven places along the road, to
pull at his "tiller-ropes," as he called the reins, and "guide the craft
as trim" as he could. Honest Jack, though a coachman now (for reasons
which you shall know before long), was a sailor at heart, and followed
his old ways as far as his present situation would allow. At this very
moment he was wondering at his own weakness "in turning himself into a
miserable land-lubber, all for love of the capt'n and the two little
middies." Meantime, Donald was div