We talked of many things, wheeling round, and lighting here and there; for I was a stranger, and all that they knew of me was that I was a Socialist, and probably a Turk, Infidel, or Heretic; otherwise I should not have been sent down there by THAT Government. But by some chance remark it was found that we had Oxford as a common nursing mother, and we did better. The Rector was thirty years my senior. He was of Mr. Gladstone’s standing, and had been one of his ardent supporters: now mourned his decadence. The Squire preceded me by ten years; David was very slightly his junior; Harry was five years my junior; thus we covered thirty-nine years. Still the Squire was rather distant, till in the course of our memories I let fall something which inclined him to believe that our views of the Prime Minister’s policy coincided. After that he became most friendly. It is better, as Mrs. Malaprop remarked, to begin with a little aversion. He “took a glass of wine with me” in the old Oxford fashion, and we got on capitally. Where had I been last week? I told him. Had I seen old Micaiah Roberts there? I thought I had, but there were two or three Robertses. “Did you see Mrs. Micaiah?” said David; “they say that she lost her wedding-ring last year, and went to her husband to get a new one: “‘Micaiah, I’ve lost my wedding-ring.’ “‘Well, Mrs. Roberts, what of that?’ “‘Won’t you get me another, Micaiah?’ “‘No-a, Mrs. Roberts, I will not; your a-age and your personal appearance will preserve you from insult.’” The Druid was hot on the scent. Had I heard about Micaiah’s son? “Some one asked Micaiah what he was going to do with his two sons. He said, ‘The eldest will be a solicitor, if he can get his articles. The other will go into the Church, like his father.’ “‘But that will be costly, my dear sir. Shall you send him to Oxford?’ “‘No-a, sir,’ replied Micaiah, ‘he will become a Nonconformist preacher; then after a year or two he will go to the Bishop and say, “My Lord, I haf seen reason to change my opeenionss, and I wish to be ordained,” and the Bishop will ordain him, and gif him a living moreofer.’” David turned to me. “The Druid doesn’t love the Bishop; says he is a (Welsh expression--I think ‘Hwntw drwg’ or ‘bad man from yonder’); that is what we call the South Walians; and he says the Bishop’s accent is lamentable.”