“Aye――better than that,” said a middle-aged man. “It was on the very night that Lord Ethalwood lost his son――the last on ’em as was left. He aint bin the same man since.” “And who might that be?” enquired Peace. “Well, his lordship,” returned the other――“the owner of the foine estate on the top of the hill, called Broxbridge Hall.” “Ah! a fine place, is it?” “Yes, surely――a should think it was.” “Well, never mind about that, his lordship aint half so happy as we are, I’ll bet a crown,” said another of the company. “Who’s for the next song? Come, Nelly, can’t you give us something soft and sentimental, eh?” “Nay; I must be for getting home,” answered the girl, “an’ leave you men folks to yourselves.” She was about to depart, but as Peace had commenced a preliminary flourish on his violin, she sat down again. The violinist played a fantasia, introducing a number of popular airs which seemed to delight his audience amazingly. When he brought this part of his performance to a close he was encored. He then imitated the noises of animals in the farm-yard; this sent the rustics into perfect ecstacies of delight. “They had never heard anything so perfectly natural in their born days”――so they one and all declared. “Well, thee just does know how to handle the fiddle,” said one. “And mek it speak like a Christian,” said another. “It be a gift,” observed another. Nell now rose to go, but she was not permitted to do so, until she had favoured the company with a song. In a rich contralto voice she sang the following:―― I love the shepherd’s artless rhymes, A shepherd’s joys revealing; I love the songs of ancient times, Their notes of simple feeling. They echoed o’er my native hills When last I wandered near them, And now mine ear with rapture thrills In distant climes to hear them. When hopes that could the heart entrance, On airy wings have vanished; When all the dreams of wild romance From memory’s page are banished. Such strains the heart awhile may soothe, ’Mid foreign wilds deserted, Though all the joys that pleased our youth Have one by one departed. Sweet as the dream of former years, When sleep the eyelids shrouded; Sweet as the star that oft appears, When all the rest are clouded. Sweet as the warbler’s latest strain, When storms the year have shaded; Or ling’ring rose that decks the plain When all the rest have faded. “Excellent! Admirably sung!” exclaimed Peace. “I’m quite delighted with your voice and your manner of singing.” “I must not stop any longer,” said the girl; “I expect I shall catch it as it is. Good-night to all!” And with these words she tripped out of the room. The landlord now entered. “Ye be making merry to-night, friends,” said he. “Ah, surely it’s a poor heart as never rejoices. Sit down, Brickett, we ain’t goin’ to let ee off.” The host of the “Old Carved Lion” did as he was bid.