them from my little casement while my leg was setting.
And Lizzy used to write to me such dear letters; my baskets were all for
her. We had baskets enough to have furnished a house with bask'ts; could
have dined in baskets, sat in baskets, slept in baskets. With a few
lessons I could soon recover the knack of the work. I should like to see
the place again; it would be shaking hands with my youth once more. None
who could possibly recognize me could be now living. Saw no one but the
surgeon, the basketmaker, and his wife; all so old they must be long
since gathered to their fathers. Perhaps no one carries on the basket
trade now. I may revive it and have it all to myself; perhaps the
cottage itself may be easily hired." Thus, ever disposed to be sanguine,
the vagabond chattered on, Sophy listening fondly, and smiling up in his
face. "And a fine large park close by: the owners, great lords, deserted
it then; perhaps it is deserted still. You might wander over it as if it
were your own, Sophy. Such wonderful trees,--such green solitudes; and
pretty shy hares running across the vistas,--stately deer too! We will
make friends with the lodge-keepers, and we will call the park yours,
Sophy; and I shall be a genius who weaves magical baskets, and you shall
be the enchanted princess concealed from all evil eyes, knitting doileys
of pearl under leaves of emerald, and catching no sound from the world
of perishable life, except as the boughs whisper and the birds sing."

"Dear me, here you are; we thought you were lost," said the bailiff's
wife; "tea is waiting for you, and there's husband, sir, coming up from
his work; he'll be proud and glad to know you, sir, and you too, my
dear; we have no children of our own."

It is past eleven. Sophy, worn out, but with emotions far more
pleasurable than she has long known, is fast asleep. Waife kneels by her
side, looking at her. He touches her hand, so cool and soft; all fever
gone: he rises on tiptoe; he bends over her forehead,--a kiss there,
and a tear; he steals away, down, down the stairs. At the porch is the
bailiff holding Sir Isaac.

"We'll take all care of her," said Mr. Gooch. "You'll not know her again
when you come back."

Waife pressed the hand of his grandchild's host, but did not speak.

"You are sure you will find your way,--no, that's the wrong
turn,--straight onto the town. They'll be sitting up for you at the
Saracen's Head, I suppose, of course, sir? It seems not ho