"You seem well acquainted with all the local circumstances of that disastrous day," observed Aston.

"In my boyhood," replied Cameron, "I used to spend some months every year with a maiden aunt, in that corner house, opposite the Cathedral. God rest her soul! She was a good creature, and did all she could to spoil me. It was from her I heard, during many a winter's evening, the tales of other days, relating to the 'great battle,' and the chivalrous deeds of her own father, who was a staunch Cavalier. The house I pointed out," he continued, "belonged to one William Bagnall; and opposite to it, towards evening, when the battle was irrecoverably lost, the Earl of Cleveland, Sir James Hamilton, and other devoted followers of Charles, made a desperate stand, (though they knew it to be a hopeless one,) to gain time for the King's escape. Cromwell's troopers were close at his heels; but at that critical moment, a loyal citizen of Worcester contrived to overthrow a load of hay so as completely to block up

Sidbury gate. There was then a general cry to remount the King, (who had been compelled to throw himself off his horse, and creep on all fours under the hay, to get into the city,) when that same William Bagnall, leading forth a horse of his own ready saddled from the stable, Charles flung himself across its back and fled."

"I hope he did not forget this service afterwards," said Aston. "Honest William Bagnall was, at least, as well entitled to a hundred a year, as William Penderill.”

"I never heard, however, that he got it," replied Cameron.

Thus discoursing, they arrived at the King's Head, in the High Street, where they set up their rest for the night, Cameron resolving to cast a wary eye around his bed-chamber, to be certain there was no defunct landlady closeted for his convenience.

CHAPTER XVI.

I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE next day, about noon, our travellers arrived at Azledine Hall, where Cameron found an affectionate, and Aston a cordial and hospitable, reception. There were tears of gladness in bright and laughing eyes, as Arabella and Bertha met their brother at the door, and grasping either hand, led him with bounding steps to the room where Lady Azledine and Sir Everton bestowed a greeting sanctified by holier sympathies. What that greeting was, they alone can understand who have been proud in their love of an only son, and welcomed him home, in the bloom of manhood,

after sweet-tongued rumour of ripening excellence had forerun his coming.

Nor was Aston less delighted to observe the respectful, but sincere congratulations of the domestics,―surer signs than even the greetings of kindred, of what we are at our own hearths. It was no office of his, yet the old steward, Judiah Flinn, came out to hold his horse as he alighted; and a sentiment of conscious worth beamed from his countenance when Cameron shook him kindly by the hand. Mrs. Kilpin, too, stood bobbing and smiling at the window of the housekeeper's room, receiving, in return, many friendly nods from her young master.

She had put on her best silver-mounted spectacles for the occasion; and when Mr. Flinn, soon after, came into her room, the first remark she made was: "Well, I'm sure Oxford must be a pure healthy place, though it is so near London, as they say it is, for I declare Master Cameron has grown almost out of knowledge since he has been at school; nay, he looks quite a man; and it isn't so very long, neither, that he was at home for the holidays."

"Surely you must think me the most incredulous man in the world, not to believe what you have told me every day these ten years," said Cicero to some Roman gentleman of a certain age, who kept assuring him he was that very month only forty. It is extremely doubtful whether Mr. Flinn ever read Tully; but he answered Mrs. Kilpin in the very spirit of the Roman orator, by reminding her that she had said just the same thing "every time Mr. Cameron had passed his vacations at home," laying a proper emphasis upon vacations, to signify to the worthy woman, as delicately as he could, that she should not call them holidays.

It was not many days after his arrival that Cameron one morning received a message from his father, desiring to see him in the library. He immediately obeyed the summons; and when he entered the room, found there an athletic, swarthy, ruffianly-looking fellow, who had the appearance of a gipsy. Sir Everton was holding a paper in his hand.

"Read this," said he, presenting it to his