"Not like pies! that very odd--Mr. Hobbs likes pies--perhaps you don't have the crust made thick eno'. How somever, you can make it up to him with a pudding. A wife should always study her husband's tastes--what is a man's home without love? Still a husband ought not to be aggravating, and dislike pie on a Saturday!" "Holla! I say, ma, do you see that 'ere gipsy? I shall go and have my fortune told." "And I--and I!" "Lor, if there ben't a tramper!" cried Mr. Hobbs, rising indignantly; "what can the parish be about?" The object of these latter remarks, filial and paternal, was a young woman in a worn, threadbare cloak, with her face pressed to the openwork of the gate, and looking wistfully--oh, how wistfully!--within. The children eagerly ran up to her, but they involuntarily slackened their steps when they drew near, for she was evidently not what they had taken her for. No gipsy hues darkened the pale, thin, delicate cheek--no gipsy leer lurked in those large blue and streaming eyes--no gipsy effrontery bronzed that candid and childish brow. As she thus pressed her countenance with convulsive eagerness against the cold bars, the young people caught the contagion of inexpressible and half-fearful sadness--they approached almost respectfully--"Do you want anything here?" said the eldest and boldest of the boys. "I--I--surely this is Dale Cottage?" "It was Dale Cottage, it is Hobbs' Lodge now; can't you read?" said the heir of the Hobbs's honours, losing, in contempt at the girl's ignorance, his first impression of sympathy. "And--and--Mr. Butler, is he gone too?" Poor child! she spoke as if the cottage was gone, not improved; the Ionic portico had no charm for her! "Butler!--no such person lives here. Pa, do you know where Mr. Butler lives?" Pa was now moving up to the place of conference the slow artillery of his fair round belly and portly calves. "Butler, no--I know nothing of such a name--no Mr. Butler lives here. Go along with you--ain't you ashamed to beg?" "No Mr. Butler!" said the girl, gasping for breath, and clinging to the gate for support. "Are you sure, sir?" "Sure, yes!--what do you want with him?" "Oh, papa, she looks faint!" said one of the /girls/ deprecatingly--"do let her have something to eat; I'm sure she's hungry." Mr. Hobbs looked angry; he had often been taken in, and no rich man likes beggars. Generally speaking, the rich man is in the right. But then Mr. Hobbs turned to the suspected tramper's sorrowful face and then to his fair pretty child--and his good angel whispered something to Mr. Hobbs's heart--and he said, after a pause, "Heaven forbid that we should not feel for a poor fellow-creature not so well to do as ourselves. Come in, my lass, and have a morsel to eat." The girl did not seem to hear him, and he repeated the invitation, approaching to unlock the gate.