ts on the road-one of them hit the donkey
on the nose. If the ass could have spoken Latin, he would have said, "_Et
tu, Brute!_" As it was, he hung down his ears, and walked on.

"Gee hup," said the Tinker, and he followed the ass. Then stopping, he
looked over his shoulder, and seeing that the Parson's eyes were gazing
mournfully on his _protege_, "Never fear, your reverence," cried the
Tinker kindly; "I'll not spite 'un."

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

"Four o'clock," cried the Parson, looking at his watch; "half-an-hour
after dinnertime, and Mrs. Dale particularly begged me to be punctual,
because of the fine trout the Squire sent us. Will you venture on what
our homely language calls 'pot luck,' Doctor?"

Now Riccabocca, like most wise men, especially if Italians, was by no
means inclined to the credulous view of human nature. Indeed, he was in
the habit of detecting self-interest in the simplest actions of his
fellow-creatures. And when the Parson thus invited him to pot luck, he
smiled with a kind of lofty complacency; for Mrs. Dale enjoyed the
reputation of having what her friends styled "her little tempers." And,
as well-bred ladies rarely indulge in "little tempers" in the presence of
a third person, not of the family, so Dr. Riccabocca instantly concluded
that he was invited to stand between the pot and the luck!
Nevertheless--as he was fond of trout, and a much more good-natured man
than he ought to have been according to his principles-he accepted the
hospitality; but he did so with a sly look from over his spectacles,
which brought a blush into the guilty cheeks of the Parson. Certainly
Riccabocca had for once guessed right in his estimate of human motives.

The two walked on, crossed a little bridge that spanned the rill, and
entered the parsonage lawn. Two dogs, that seemed to have sat on watch
for their master, sprang toward him barking; and the sound drew the
notice of Mrs. Dale, who, with parasol in hand, sallied out from the sash
window which opened on the lawn. Now, O reader! I know that in thy secret
heart, thou art chuckling over the want of knowledge in the sacred arcana
of the domestic hearth, betrayed by the author; thou art saying to
thyself, "A pretty way to conciliate little tempers, indeed, to add to
the offense of spoiling the fish, the crime of bringing an unexpected
friend to eat it. Pot luck, quotha, when the pot's boiled over this half
hour!"

Bu