standing knee-deep in water with their heads against a slimy arch.

"This is the very last culvert," sighed Corinne, relieved, as they
rumbled across one and entered the village where they were to stop
over night.

It was already dusk. The town dogs were beginning to bark, and the
candles to twinkle. Zene's wagon was unhitched in front of the
tavern, and this signified that the carriage-load might confidently
expect entertainment. The tavern was a sprawled-out house, with an
arch of glass panes over the entrance door. A fat post stood in front
of it, upholding a swinging sign.

The tavern-keeper came out of the door to meet them when they
stopped, and helped his guests alight, while a hostler stood ready to
lead the horses away.

Aunt Corinne sprung down the steps, glad of the change after the
day's ride, until, glancing down the 'pike over their late route, she
saw tramping toward the tavern that little old man with a bag on his
back.




CHAPTER III.

THE TAVERN.