quick sob that might have touched the most cynical republican.

In a few minutes more, Losely was again on horseback; and as he rode
towards Ouzelford, Rugge and his dusty Faithful shambled on in the
opposite direction--shambled on, footsore and limping, along the wide,
waste, wintry thoroughfare--vanishing from the eye, as their fates
henceforth from this story. There they go by the white hard milestone;
farther on, by the trunk of the hedgerow-tree, which lies lopped and
leafless--cumbering the wayside, till the time come to cast it off to the
thronged, dull stackyard. Farther yet, where the ditch widens into yon
stagnant pool, with the great dung-heap by its side. There the road
turns aslant; the dung-heap hides them. Gone! and not a speck on the
Immemorial, Universal Thoroughfare.




CHAPTER V.

NO WIND SO CUTTING AS THAT WHICH SETS IN THE QUARTER FROM WHICH THE
SUN RISES.

The town to which I lend the disguising name of Ouzelford, which, in
years bygone, was represented by Guy Darrell, and which, in years to
come, may preserve in its municipal hall his effigies in canvas or stone,
is one of the handsomest in England. As you approach its suburbs from
the London Road, it rises clear and wide upon your eye, crowning the
elevated table-land upon which it is built;--a noble range of prospect on
either side, rich with hedgerows not yet sacrificed to the stern demands
of modern agriculture--venerable woodlands, and the green pastures round