n their left, at the
entrance of the village.

"Ah, that's the vicarage," replied the agent, "and the church is a little
beyond, and along there, on the other side of the road, is the farm-house
which does not belong to you."

They were now entering the village, the long, straggling street of which
soon afforded "the Golden Shoemaker" evidence enough of his deceased
uncle's parsimonious ideas. Half-ruined cottages and tumbledown houses
were dispersed around; here and there along the main street, were two or
three melancholy shops; and in the centre of the village stood a
disreputable-looking public-house.

"I could wish," said "Cobbler" Horn, as they passed the last-mentioned
building, "that my village did not contain any place of that kind."

"There's no reason," responded the agent, with a quiet smile, "why you
should have a public-house in the place, if you don't want one."

"Couldn't we have a public-house without strong drink?"

"No doubt we could, sir; but it wouldn't pay."

"You mean as a matter of money, of course. But that is nothing to me, and
the scheme would pay in other respects. I leave it to you, Mr. Gray, to
get rid of the present occupant of the house as soon as it can be done
without injustice, and to convert the establishment into a public-house
without the drink--a place which will afford suitable accommodation for
travellers, and be a pleasant meeting place, of an evening, for the men
and boys of the village."

"Thank you, sir," said the agent, with huge delight. "Have I carte
blanche?"

"'Carte blanche'?" queried "Cobbler" Horn, with a puzzled air. "Let me
see; that's----what? Ah, I know--a free hand, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," replied the agent gravely.

"Then that's just what I mean."

As they drove on, "Cobbler" Horn observed that most of the gardens
attached to the cottages were in good order, and that some of the people
had been at great pains to conceal the mouldering walls of their wretched
huts with roses, honeysuckle, and various climbing plants. Glowing with
honest shame, he became restlessly eager to wave his golden wand over this
desolate scene.

"This is my place, sir," said the agent, as they stopped at the gate of a
dingy, double-fronted house. "You'll have a bit of dinner with us in our
humble way?"

"Thank you," said "the Golden Shoemaker," "I shall be very glad."

CHAPTER XXI.

IN NEED OF REPAIRS.

Aft