on grumbled a bit; but, indeed, the woman was piled about
with packages up to the neck. So, very sad-like, he went back to his
own chaise--that was now slewed about for Falmouth--and off the
procession started at an easy trot, the good man bouncing up in his
seat from time to time to blow back a kiss.

But after awhile he shouted to the post-boy to pull up again.

"What's the matter, love?" sings out Mrs. Polwhele, overtaking him
and coming to a stand likewise.

"Why, it occurs to me, my angel, that _you_ might get into _my_
chaise, if you're not too tightly wedged."

"There's no saying what will happen when I once begin to move," said
Mrs. Polwhele: "but I'll risk it. For I don't mind telling you that
one of my legs went to sleep somewhere near St. Austell, and 'tis
dreadfully uncomfortable."

So out she was fetched and climbed in beside her husband.

"But what was it that upset you?" he asked, as they started again.

Mrs. Polwhele laid her cheek to his shoulder and sobbed aloud; and so
by degrees let out her story.

"But, my love, the thing's impossible!" cried Parson Polwhele.
"There's no Frenchman in Cornwall at this moment, unless maybe 'tis
the Guernsey merchant or some poor wretch of a prisoner escaped from
the hulks in the Hamoaze."

"Then, that's what these men were, you may be sure," said Mrs.
Polwhele.

"Tut-tut-tut! You've just told me that they came across the ferry,
like any ordinary passengers."

"Did I? Then I told more than I know; for I never saw them cross."

"A couple of escaped prisoners wouldn't travel by coach in broad
daylight, and talk French in everyone's hearing."

"We live in the midst of mysteries," said Mrs. Polwhele. "There's my
parcels, now--I packed 'em in the Highflyer most careful, and I'm
sure Jim the Guard would be equally careful in handing them out--you
know the sort of man he is: and yet I find a good dozen of them
plastered in mud, and my new Moldavia cap, that I gave twenty-three
shillings for only last Tuesday, pounded to a jelly, quite as if
someone had flung it on the road and danced on it!"

The poor soul burst out into fresh tears, and there against her
husband's shoulder cried herself fairly asleep, being tired out with
travelling all night. By and by the Parson, that wanted a nap just
as badly, dozed off beside her: and in this fashion they were brought
back through Falmouth streets and into the yard of the "Crown and
Anchor," where Mrs. Polwhele