of many things, and probably talking to himself a
good deal, as his habit was. He had covered nearly half the distance,
when suddenly--a deadly sinking in the pit of his stomach--a paralysis
of every limb--around him a world extinct of light and music--a black
sun and a reeling sky--he had forgotten the tea-things!

[Illustration: '"_Why, Master Harold! whatever be the matter? Baint
runnin' away, be ee?_"']

It was useless, it was hopeless, all was over and nothing could now be
done. Nevertheless he turned and ran back wildly, blindly, choking with
the big sobs that evoked neither pity nor comfort from a merciless
mocking world around; a stitch in his side, dust in his eyes, and black
despair clutching at his heart. So he stumbled on, with leaden legs and
bursting sides, till--as if Fate had not yet dealt him her last worst
buffet of all--on turning a corner in the road he almost ran under the
wheels of a dog-cart, in which, as it pulled up, was apparent the portly
form of Farmer Larkin, the arch-enemy, at whose ducks he had been shying
stones that very morning!

Had Harold been in his right and unclouded senses, he would have
vanished through the hedge some seconds earlier, rather than pain the
farmer by any unpleasant reminiscences which his appearance might
recall; but, as things were, he could only stand and blubber hopelessly,
caring, indeed, little now what further misery might befall him. The
farmer, for his part, surveyed the desolate figure with some
astonishment, calling out in no unfriendly accents, 'Why, Master Harold!
whatever be the matter? Baint runnin' away, be ee?'

Then Harold, with the unnatural courage born of desperation, flung
himself on the step, and, climbing into the cart, fell in the straw at
the bottom of it, sobbing out that he wanted to go back, go back! The
situation had a vagueness; but the farmer, a man of action rather than
of words, swung his horse round smartly, and they were in the town again
by the time Harold had recovered himself sufficiently to furnish
details. As they drove up to the shop, the woman was waiting at the door
with the parcel; and hardly a minute seemed to have elapsed since the
black crisis, ere they were bowling along swiftly home, the precious
parcel hugged in a close embrace.

And now the farmer came out in quite a new and unexpected light. Never
a word did he say of broken fences and hurdles, of trampled crops and
harried flocks and herds. One would have t