leans out over the darkness, and, says he,
speaking down: "Very sorry, Parson, but your missus wasn't taken very
well t'other side of St. Germans, and we've been forced to leave her
'pon the road."

Now, the Parson doted on his wife, as well he might. He was a very
learned man, you must know, and wrote a thundering great history of
Cornwall: but outside of book-learning his head rambled terribly, and
Mrs. Polwhele managed him in all the little business of life.
"'Tis like looking after a museum," she used to declare. "I don't
understand the contents, I'm thankful to say; but, please God, I can
keep 'em dusted." A better-suited couple you couldn't find, nor a
more affectionate; and whenever Mrs. Polwhele tripped it to Plymouth,
the Parson would be at Falmouth to welcome her back, and they'd sleep
the night at the "Crown and Anchor" and drive home to Manaccan next
morning.

"Not taken well?" cried the Parson. "Oh, my poor Mary--my poor, dear
Mary!"

"'Tisn' so bad as all that," says Jim, as soothing as he could; but
he thought it best to tell nothing about the rumpus.

"If 'tis on the wings of an eagle, I must fly to her!" cries the
Parson, and he hurried indoors and called out for a chaise and pair.

He had some trouble in persuading a post-boy to turn out at such an
hour, but before midnight the poor man was launched and rattling away
eastward, chafing at the hills and singing out that he'd pay for
speed, whatever it cost. And at Grampound in the grey of the morning
he almost ran slap into a chaise and pair proceeding westward, and
likewise as if its postilion wanted to break his neck.

Parson Polwhele stood up in his vehicle and looked out ahead.
The two chaises had narrowly missed doubling each other into a cocked
hat; in fact, the boys had pulled up within a dozen yards of smash,
and there stood the horses face to face and steaming.

"Why, 'tis my Mary!" cries the Parson, and takes a leap out of the
chaise.

"Oh, Richard! Richard!" sobs Mrs. Polwhele. "But you can't possibly
come in here, my love," she went on, drying her eyes.

"Why not, my angel?"

"Because of the parcels, dearest. And Heaven only knows what's
underneath me at this moment, but it feels like a flat-iron.
Besides," says she, like the prudent woman she was, "we've paid for
two chaises. But 'twas good of you to come in search of me, and I'll
say what I've said a thousand times, that I've the best husband in
the world."

The Pars