CHAPTER IX.

So handle your webs, that they never come to be woven in the loom of justice; take anything that's given you, purses, knives, handkerchiefs, tweezers, any toy, any money. The Spanish Gipsy.

SOME adventures befel them on the road, which it was beyond Stephen's philosophy to account for. One of these happened the second day after leaving Ashbourne.

They were trotting leisurely through a narrow lane, talking and laughing, (for Kilvert had an inexhaustible store of droll stories,) when they saw before them a portly personage, habited in canonicals, ambling along upon a little grey pony, and reading at the same time.

Kilvert, raising himself in his stirrups, and

looking about him in every direction, suddenly addressed Stephen.

"I am pretty sure," said he, "I know that gentleman; if so, I shouldn't like to pass him without saying, how do you do. But he is the most shy creature in the world to strangers, and if he saw you with me, would hardly speak a word. Just put your horse into a canter, therefore, and ride about half a mile a head. I'll overtake you, as soon as I have exchanged a few compliments. Don't look at him as you pass. He has a particular aversion to being stared at."

Stephen did as he was desired; and in less than five minutes heard his companion following at a full gallop.

"Come along, Squire !" said he, as he shot past him.

Stephen put spurs to his own horse, and they continued at that speed for several miles. At last they turned into another road, when Kilvert slackened his pace, but still kept up a good round trot during the rest of the day.

"Was it your friend?" inquired Stephen,

as soon as there was an opportunity to ask

the question.

"Oh yes,” replied Kilvert.

"The moment

I saw him in that lane, I knew he was the person I wanted.”

The next day, towards sunset, they were crossing a wide and lonely common. Here they met a farmer, returning from market. "Good evening," said he, as they passed. "Good evening, friend," answered Kilvert. But Kilvert had not gone fifty yards before he observed to Stephen; "I am pretty sure, from his voice, that farmer's name is Woakes, nephew to a friend of mine in London, who will be delighted to hear he is alive and well. I have a great mind to ride back," he continued, (looking after the farmer,)" and ask him whether he is not Jonathan Woakes. Egad I will (casting his eyes about in every direction)-you go on, I'll be up with you again

in a minute."

He turned his horse's head, and set off after Mr. Woakes. Stephen proceeded onwards. But he began to think Kilvert had either

missed the road, or else, had found a great deal to say to Mr. Woakes; for it was not till he had ridden the better part of two miles that he heard the sound of his horse's feet.

As on the former occasion, he came up at full gallop, and bade Stephen follow him at the same pace; which he did till they had covered a good ten miles of ground across the country.

When the night closed in, they halted at a lone public house, to bait their cattle and refresh themselves. This was the first moment Stephen could find to inquire after Mr. Woakes.

"I was right enough as to my man," said Kilvert; "but d-n him, I do believe he thought I was a highwayman; for when he looked back and saw me at his heels, off he set as if the devil was after him. I wasn't to be baulked, however; so I gave Saucy Jack rein, whip, and spur, and he soon brought me alongside Mister Woakes. Even then he wouldn't answer my questions; and I was forced to be almost uncivil to get from him

what I wanted. At last, however, he did unbosom himself, and then we parted such good friends, that I do think he would have returned with me, if I had not insisted upon his going on."

Another little incident occurred upon Hounslow Heath, when they had been five days on their journey. It was a clear, frosty, moonlight night, and the hard ground rung under the tread of their horses. About the middle of the heath, they saw a carriage approaching at a slow pace.

"Let us walk our nags," said Kilvert, and he turned himself in his saddle to look behind; then raised himself in his stirrups to take a survey of the moonlight scene on each side. Presently he exclaimed, "Well, this is what I call luck! I'll eat my own fingers if Jonathan Woakes' uncle is not in that very carriage. I know the old gentleman's livery; he is going down to his country-house. I'll tell you what you shall do, Squire. I must stop and inform him about his nephew; but you ride on; the turnpike