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"A rather melancholy story,” observed the emigrant after a minute’s silence.

“Yes, yes. Well, we must take ups and downs together,” said the seedsman’s father,

“You don’t know, Mr. Lackland, I suppose, what a rum start that waa between Andrey Satchel and Jane Vallens and the pa'son and clerk o’ Scrimpton ?” said the master-thatcher, a man with a spark of subdued liveliness in his eye, who had hitherto kept his attention mainly upon small objects a long way ahead, as he sat in front of the van with his feet outside.

“Theirs was a queerer experience of a pa’son and clerk than some folks get, and may cheer’ce up a little after this dampness that’a been flung over yer soul.

The returned one replied that he knew nothing of the history, and should be happy to hear it, quite recollecting the personality of the man Satchel.

“Ah, no; this Andrey Satchel is the son of the Satchel that you knew ; this one has not been married more than two or three years, and "twas at the time o’ the wedding that the accident happened that I could tell ’ee of, or anybody else here, for that matter,”

“No, no; you must tell it, neighbor, if anybody,” said several; a request in which Mr. Lackland joined, adding that the Satchel family was one he had known well before leaving home,

“I'll just mention, as you be a stranger,” whispered the carrier to Lackland, “that Christopher's stories will bear pruning.”

The emigrant nodded.

‘Well, I can soon tell it,” aaid the master-thatcher, schooling himeelf to a tone of actuality. “Though as it bas more to do with the pa’son and clerk than with Andrey himeelf, it ought to be told by a better church-man than I.”