Under the Mendips: A Tale. Marshall Emma

must look after the carriage. I am afraid there should be some mistake. I want a pair of greys to post with, and I should not wonder if they tried to pass off two old bays, with their bones just through their skins."

      And the next minute the fine gentleman was sauntering off in the opposite direction to poor Charlotte, who went away disconsolate.

      Meantime Mr. Arundel and Joyce had walked quickly to the Vicar's Close, and Joyce, having captured her basket with the dead bird, was surprised to find Mr. Arundel waiting for her at the little gate.

      "Mr. Plume's shop is in New Street," she said. "It is scarcely to be called a shop, but there are a few stuffed birds in the window. We must go up the steps by the chapel into the North Liberty."

      Mr. Arundel was struck with the business-like fashion in which Joyce conducted her interview with Mr. Plume.

      He was a little dried-up-looking man, whose front parlour had that peculiar scent which is characteristic of rooms where stuffed animals are kept.

      Mr. Plume did not confine himself to birds. A large fox, with gleaming teeth and glassy eyes, stared at the customers from a shelf in a recess by the fire-place. A badger was on another; and owls of all sizes and colours were standing, with one foot tucked up, and a certain stony stare in their great round, unshadowed eyes.

      Mr. Plume did not waste words.

      "Sparry-'awk," he said "sparry-'awk; it is of not great value, missie. Humph!" he continued, "it's not a rare speciment, but I'll set it up. How's the young gentleman, eh?"

      "Quite well, thank you, Mr. Plume; and please have the bird ready by the next time we come into Wells. We must not stop now; but what a noise those men are making."

      As she spoke, Mr. Arundel went out to the door, and Joyce, peeping through the cases in the window, saw a cart being dragged up the hill towards the Bristol Road by four rough-looking men. Another huge man sat in the cart, his head lolling upon his breast, evidently the worse for drink. A few wild-looking men and boys and a lean pony followed; and two or three women, with their hair hanging down their backs, brought up the rear; and all were shouting at the top of their voices some rhyme, the drift of which was, that the justices had got the worst of it, and that Bob was free.

      "What does it all mean?" Mr. Arundel said.

      "Oh, it's only some of the rough Mendip folk. One of 'em was taken up for snaring rabbits, and there was a great row. I suppose the justices have let him off – afraid to do anything else. There is a deal of ill-blood in them parts; and they say it's even worse in the cities than what it is in the country. Dear me!" said Mr. Plume, stroking the back of a stuffed spaniel which was handy. "It's a thousand pities folks can't mind their own business, instead of annoying respectable folks. Good-day to you, Miss Falconer. Good-day to you, sir."

      When outside the shop Joyce paused and watched the straggling crowd wind up the steep hill.

      "It is dreadful to see people like this," she said, with a sigh. "I must ask father about it; for he has been sitting on the bench to-day. I hope they are not angry with him."

      "I hope not," Mr. Arundel said; "they look little better than savages, and would knock any one on the head for a trifle."

      "We must make haste," Joyce said, "for father does not like to be kept waiting, and mother expects us home to tea. I dare say we shall get to Fair Acres before you do."

      "Why can't we all drive together?" Mr. Arundel asked.

      Joyce hesitated a moment, but only for a moment.

      "You are thought too grand to drive in our four-wheel," she said, smiling.

      "Grand! Who said so?"

      "Melville, of course. He said you would be shocked to rumble and jolt over the roads, and that your luggage must go on the roof of the post-chaise."

      Mr. Arundel laughed a merry, pleasant laugh, and said:

      "I am sorry your brother should have given you such a bad account of me. Poor fellow!"

      Joyce looked up quickly.

      "Then you don't think exactly as Melville does?"

      "No, I hope not," was the reply.

      "But he is a friend of yours, is not he?"

      "Yes, he is a friend – up to a certain point. Do not think me ungracious."

      "Oh! no. I understand."

      "Melville thinks a great deal of you, and is so proud that you have come here. I am glad you have come also, now I have seen you, though when I first heard you were coming I dreaded it; and so did mother. But I must not stop to talk any more now, except to ask you to make mother feel as you have made me feel, that you are not so very grand, after all."

      The squire was seen at the door of the Crown as Joyce and Mr. Arundel turned into Saddler Street, and Joyce ran quickly towards him. Her father waved his hand impatiently.

      "Come, Joyce; come, make haste!"

      In another moment she had mounted to her seat by his side, and they were off at a quick trot. The good old horse knew that her head was turned homewards and went cheerily down the High Street, past the noble church of St. Cuthbert, where there was no traffic to impede its progress.

      The squire was silent until they were fairly out of the town, when he said:

      "So your grand brother can't ride in his father's carriage! He and his fine friend may pay for the chaise; I shall not."

      "I do not think the friend is fine after all," Joyce said; "he laughed at the idea of the post-chaise."

      The squire cracked his whip impatiently.

      "He may well laugh. Ah! little Joyce, there are many graver questions at issue than the freaks of an over-indulged, reckless boy like Melville. We had a stormy scene in the court to-day. That man who was let off a month, in gaol richly deserved punishment; but there was a division on the bench and my conviction was overruled."

      "Oh!" Joyce exclaimed, "I saw a crowd of rough people going up the Bristol Road; they had taken a pony out of a cart, and were dragging it up the hill, with a man in it, who was half asleep."

      "Half drunk," said the squire; "that is more likely. They are a rough lot on Mendip, more like savages than the inhabitants of a civilised country."

      "What is to be done to make them better, father? Has not Mrs. More tried to get the children taught?"

      "Yes, she has been trying for years to make the schools succeed; but there is plenty of labour and little to show for it."

      "Perhaps," said Joyce, "there is some good done, though we don't see it. It is always easier to see bad things than good ones; so easy to see faults in those about us, and to be blind to their goodness."

      The squire laughed; between this father and daughter there existed a sympathetic friendship wholly independent of the natural tie of parent and child.

      "You are right, Joyce, quite right; but I am afraid one does not need glasses to find out the bad things."

      "Father, let us put them on to find the good ones, then," Joyce rejoined.

      The squire leaned back, and let the old horse go her own pace, and her own way.

      "Ah! my little Joyce, that is wise advice. Thank God, I need no spectacles to find out the good in you. I look to you to keep things smooth at home for the next few days, and to help me to do the same. I am quick-tempered, I know, and when I flare out, I am sorry afterwards."

      "You don't often 'flare out,' as you say, to me, dear dad."

      "What did your aunt say to you to-day? – called you her 'rustic,' I'll answer for it."

      "Oh, yes, of course she did; and she wants me to pay a grand visit to Barley Wood."

      "To Barley Wood! – to Mrs. Hannah More! Mother won't hear of it. Your aunt had better not meddle. What do you think about it yourself?"

      "I should like to pay a visit – a short visit – to Barley Wood. That is quite different from going to school. But with the boys coming home, and Melville and his friend