We should be talking of Justin, a hundred yards ahead of us, opening a gate into a field of stubble, disposing himself comfortably beneath a convenient haystack till the rain should be over. To do him justice, Justin would have walked through it contentedly enough, rather enjoying the sluicing downpour, certainly without a thought of his clothes, which were as he liked them, old and shapeless and comfortable; but he would not ride. He was as near an old maid about his possessions as a healthy boy can be, and the idea of exposing his fine new bicycle simply did not occur to him. He had lifted it like a baby across the stones and stubble, and had the absorbed face that his mother loved as he polished its bespattered handlebars with his handkerchief, picked a straw from its chain, and, propping it in the lee of the wind, covered it with his coat, as a premature prince might cover a sleeping beauty with still a week of her hundred years to run. Thereon, climbing to the low shelf above it, he raked together a pillow of hay, settled himself against it with another grunt—contentment this time, for the hay was soft and scented and the corner screened alike from wind and rain—and drew a small book and a large apple from his pocket. Justin never neglected either of his inner men. The apple was a pippin, and the book’s author a discovery of Justin’s. He recommended him to every one. I think his name was Carlyle. He had been reading for half an hour, more and more slowly, for the haystack-drowse that is not the least of the spells of the Witch of Kent was creeping over him, when his ear was caught by a rustle that might have been a mouse in the wall of the stack, or a sparrow stealing straw, or the leaves of his own book—it had slipped from his fingers—fluttered by the air. He opened his eyes, idly surprised to find that they had been closed, but, seeing nothing but rain-laced sky and sodden field, made no objection to their shutting out that blank prospect again, when the rustle recommenced, punctuated with jumping sounds as of a small dog scrambling on to a forbidden sofa, and finally by a voice, as small and soft and breathless a voice as he had ever heard. “If you please,” said the voice, “if, if you please—could you tell me the way to the Crystal Palace?” Justin sat up and stared. Facing him, on the edge of the shelf of hay, hooked to it insecurely by fingers and little digging chin, hung a small peaked countenance, wreathed in drenched elf-locks, with eyes like black diamonds set in rain-washed, wind-whipped cheeks.