a day at a spell after a piece of
insolence out of the common, and then deliver me a solemn lecture upon
the advantages of birth in a manor. Then his natural buoyancy would
lift him again, and he would be in childish ecstasies at the prospect of
getting to London, and seeing the great world; and I began to think that
he secretly cherished the hope of meeting some of its votaries. For
I had told him, casually as possible, that I had friends in Arlington
Street, where I remembered the Manners were established.

"Arlington Street!" he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue; "it
has a fine sound, laddie, a fine sound. That street must be the very
acme of fashion."

I laughed, and replied that I did not know. And at the ordinary of the
next inn we came to, he took occasion to mention to me, in a louder
voice than was necessary, that I would do well to call in Arlington
Street as we went into town. So far as I could see, the remark did not
compel any increase of respect from our fellow-diners.

Upon more than one point I was worried. Often and often I reflected that
some hitch might occur to prevent my getting money promptly from Mr.
Dix. Days would perchance elapse before I could find the man in such
a great city as London; he might be out of town at this season, Easter
being less than a se'nnight away. For I had heard my grandfather say
that the elder Mr. Dix had a house in some merchant's suburb, and loved
to play at being a squire before he died. Again (my heart stood at
the thought), the Manners might be gone back to America. I cursed the
stubborn pride which had led the captain to hire a post-chaise, when
the wagon had served us so much better, and besides relieved him of
the fusillade of ridicule he got travelling as a gentleman. But such
reflections always ended in my upbraiding myself for blaming him whose
generosity had rescued me from perhaps a life-long misery.

But, on the whole, we rolled southward happily, between high walls and
hedges, past trim gardens and fields and meadows, and I marvelled at
the regular, park-like look of the country, as though stamped from one
design continually recurring, like our butter at Carvel Hall. The roads
were sometimes good, and sometimes as execrable as a colonial byway in
winter, with mud up to the axles. And yet, my heart went out to this
country, the home of my ancestors. Spring was at hand; the ploughboys
whistled between the furrows, the larks circled overhead, and