"But, my good friend," remonstrated Osborne, "we are wet through, and are strangers in the village. If you don't take us in, we shall have to pass the night in the street."

This appeal produced no more effect than Wilton's had done. Grumbling out something about "our rule," and "people not going to be kep' up," the inhospitable tapster withdrew from further parley. They heard him enter the house, and close the door behind him. Almost immediately afterwards the rain, which had lulled for the last hour or two, came on again, heavier than before.

"I say, Gerald, this is pleasant," said Osborne, as he drew himself under the partial shelter which the gateway of the stable-yard afforded. "What's to be done? All these good people are gone to bed, apparently; and if we were to rouse them up, I am afraid they would be no more hospitably inclined than our friend here."

"What's to be done, then?" repeated Wilton, whose wrath had been considerably roused by the tapster's surliness, and still more by the consideration that his friend might sustain serious injury by the exposure to the wet and cold. "I am not going to stand this, any way. I am pretty sure they are obliged by the law to take us in."

"If they are," rejoined Osborne, "I don't see how we are to enforce our rights under present circumstances.”

"Ah, but I do," said the other. "I'll soon make them open the door, I promise you. Hallo!" he shouted at the top of his voice, "hallo, landlord! if you don't come down and open this door in a jiffey, I'll smash every window in your inn, and have you up before the magistrates on Monday morning into the bargain." He paused at the end of this speech, waiting to ascertain the result

of this menace. Unhappily there was no result at all. Either the landlord slept in some part of the premises where he could not hear it, or was already buried in the arms of slumber, or possibly was in the habit of receiving similar intimations, which came to nothing in the end. But whatever may have been the explanation, there came no response; and Wilton, whose wrath had reached boiling point, was moving over to the other side of the road, where lay a heap of stones ready to his hand, when he was stopped by Osborne.

"Don't do that," he said; "at all events, unless we are driven to it by unavoidable necessity. There's a light out there, just beyond the churchyard. Somebody is still up, and I dare say they will either take us in, or help us to get a guide to Endicot."

Wilton complied, though not with a very good grace. He was aware that his temper was a good deal provoked, and that it would be better to leave the conduct of the matter to his more temperate friend. "Very well," he said; "we can but try, certainly. It will be better to avoid a row, if it be possible. Only we had better make haste, or the light may be put out."

They set off accordingly, and again crossing the churchyard, found themselves at a gate leading through a small shrubbery to a house of some pretension.

"This is the parsonage, depend upon it," said Wilton, as they passed up between the laurels. "The parson has been busy finishing one of his sermons for to-morrow, and has just gone up to bed. I suppose we had better knock and ring, hadn't we?"

"I suppose so," said Osborne. "Rather a late hour

this to call upon a man; but necessity has no law." As he spoke he seized the doorbell, and pulled it vigorously, while Wilton delivered himself of a genteel rat-tat with the knocker. Several minutes passed, and there was no response. The young men repeated their summons; and then renewed it a third time, after another interval, but still without effect. The rain continuing all this time to pour down, and the two adventurers being completely soaked through, matters began to look serious. Moving round to the side of the house in which they had seen the light, and which they found still burning, Wilton gave a loud hallo; and this failing, like all previous efforts, to attract attention, he became desperate, and gathering up a handful of gravel, flung it against the windows. This last manoeuvre was more successful than its predecessors. The blind was hastily drawn up; the casement pushed open, and a strange figure presented itself at it. It was that of a tall, gaunt-looking man, attired in an old red dressing-gown, with a white cotton night-cap, crowned with a tuft, surmounting his head. He held in his hands a jugful of water, which he skilfully emptied full on Wilton's head, exclaiming, "There, Master Jem! Now take yourself off, unless you want another. I'll take care that Dilk gives you a proper flogging on Monday."

Wilton was so confounded at this unexpected assault and address, that he was speechless for the moment. But Osborne hastened to interfere.

"It is not any

"You are mistaken, sir," he said. 'Jem.' We are two strangers from Oxford, who can't get any shelter in the village, and are wet through. We want