ion for an old puzzle. "That 'ud be Rachel Blythe."

"A quick eye our 'Saiah's got," said Sennacherib. "He can see a hole
through a ladder when somebody's polished his glasses. Rachel Blythe was
the wench's name. Her was a little slip of a creator', no higher than a
well-grown gell o' twelve, but pretty in a sort o' way."

"Why, Jabez, lad," cried Isaiah, "thee lookest like a stuck pig. What's
the matter?"

The host's eyes were rounded with astonishment, and he was staring from
one of his guests to the other with an air of fatuous wonder.

"Why," said he, with an emphasis of astonishment which seemed not
altogether in keeping with so simple a discovery, "this here Rachel
Blythe was my first wife's second cousin. Our Fanny Jane used to be
talkin' about her constant. Her had offers by the baker's dozen, so it
seemed, but her could never be brought to marry. Fanny Jane was a woman
as was gi'en a good deal up to sentiment, and her was used to say the
gell's heart was fixed on somebody at Heydon Hay. It 'ud seem to come
in wi' the probability of things as they might have had a sort of a
shortness betwixt 'em, and parted."

"Theer was nobody after her here but Ezra Gold," said Sennacherib.
"Nobody. I niver heard, howsever, as they got to be hintimate enough to
quarrel. But as for Paganyni, that's rubbidge. The man played regular
till Rachel Blythe left the parish, and then he stopped."

"Well, well," said the host, contemplatively, "it's too late in life
for both on 'em. Her's back again. Made us a visit yesterday. Her's took
that little cottage o' Mother Duke's on the Barfield Road."

"Bless my soul!" said Isaiah. "I seen her yesterday as I was takin'
my walks abroad. But, Jabez, lad, her's as withered as a chip! The
littlest, wizen-edest, tiniest little old woman as ever I set eyes on.
Dear me! dear me! To think as six-an'-twenty 'ear should mek such a
difference. Her gi'en me a nod and a smile as I went by, but I niver
guessed as it was Rachel Blythe."

"Rachel Blythe it was, though," returned old Fuller. "Well, well! To
think as her and Mr. Gold should ha' kep' single one for another.
Here's a bit of a treeho, lads, as I bought in Brummagem the day afore
yesterday. It's by that new chap as wrote 'Elijah' for the festival.
Let's see. What's his name again? Mendelssohn. Shall us have a try at
it?"

CHAPTER II.

The Earl of Barfield stood at the lodge gate on a summer afternoon
attired in a wondrously old-f