t cost him dear, as he had left the heated iron lying on the
coat, to its eternal destruction.

Elated with the prospect which the magic wand of his father had swung
open to his sight--those fields of fair renown through which he was
about to wander--Henry had soon exhausted the possibilities of the
village, and found himself tramping the field-path towards Little
Flixton, in the hope of meeting some returning villagers, to whom he
could unbosom the startling news at first hand, and have the joy of
surprising them into congratulations.

The meadows had been lately cut, and the smell of new-mown hay hung
sensuously in the air. Never would he forget that evening in all the
years that were to be. Although the hay-fields had been to him a
commonplace of life since he could toddle, they would never smell as
they did that night, and would never be so sweet again. After all, it is
our sense of smell that treasures for us most vividly the impressions of
our life. The memory of all our great moments is aided largely by our
nostrils.

In one of these meadows, sloping down from a wooded mound, Henry espied
a white-frocked girlish figure seated among the hay in the soft
gloaming. It was Eunice Lyndon, the grand-daughter of old Carne, the
sexton, who, as he told you himself, had held that post for
"two-an'-forty year." Eunice's mother, old Carne's only daughter, whom
many remembered as the "Rose of Hampton," had died of consumption, and
there were some who thought that the shadow of this dread complaint hung
over the girl also.

Now, as a rule, Henry had a poor opinion of girls. They were all very
well in their way, of course, but could never hope to shine in the world
like men. This evening, however, he was so brimful of his news that he
was glad to tell it to anybody. He had even told Maggs, the blacksmith,
though the latter had been over-free with cider at the "Wings and Spur."

Henry crossed the slope of the meadow towards Eunice, who held a long
stalk of grass in her hand, and was intent upon watching a green
caterpillar worming its way up it.

"Oh, Henry," she cried out, a pretty blush mounting to her cheeks as he
approached, "just look at this fellow!"

Henry glanced down disdainfully at the caterpillar. Such trifles were
altogether beneath his notice in that great hour.

"Listen, Eunice," he began, flinging himself down beside her. "I have
news for you."

"News!" she echoed, still intent upon the caterpillar. "Isn