But Mrs. Rowles cried, “No, Bill!” while the other stood amazed at the height of his antagonist and his uncouth look; “don’t soil your hand with him. Clap this upon his poll.” Before Downy could guess what was meant, he was basketed. A big taper Sally, full of sharp stubs inside, was clapped down upon his yellow head, and fixed there staunchly, by a heavy rap from Bill’s great hand upon its bottom. Roars of pain and stifled oaths issued from it faintly, and the wearer fell down upon the grass and rolled, like a squirrel in his wheel, or a dogfish in an eel-cruive. “Little one for t’other!” cried the clever landlady; and in half a second Hotchpot was in the same condition. “Good-night, Gen’lemen both,” shouted Bill, as he drove off. “You goes to trap Miss Kitty, and you gets trapped, by Miss Sally.” Mrs. Rowles laughed so loudly at this piece of wit, that her husband vowed he heard her plainly at the _Crooked Billet_. CHAPTER XXXII. A DREAM. “COME and see who we have got here,” wrote my uncle, not quite grammatically; but the relatives are enough to puzzle any one who has not had Latin antecedents—if on the strength of good spirits I may venture upon a very ancient joke. I knew who it was; there could be no suspense or doubt. With those very brief words of his came a little note, in the hand that always made my hand shake. “DARLING KIT,” it said; “I am so sorry to hear of your long and fearful illness. But thank God you are getting better now, and will soon be as well as ever, I do hope. I cannot tell you what has happened, till you come, for it would only excite and worry you. It really seems as if there was something always to keep us from one another. But we must try to get over it, my dear; and if we keep our trust in a Good Providence, we shall. Your uncle is the kindest of the kind to me; and I am ever so much better, though I only came last night. I feel that I could wander all day long in these lovely gardens, with the blossoms, and the birds, and be as happy and as free from care as they are. But I am not to stay here, as your uncle thinks it better that I should have two pretty rooms at Widow Cutthumb’s, which are to be let very reasonably indeed, and I mean to write to ask my father for the money. You must not come back one day sooner, on account of my being here; mind that, or I shall be very angry with you. This is not because I do not long to see you, for you know better than that, dear Kit; but because I want you to get quite well, which is a great deal more to me than my own health. And so it always should be, if people love one another. Give my best regards to your aunt, Miss Parslow, and tell her that I love dogs quite as much as she does. And I once had a dear little dog of my own, but he was taken from me. Now, mind what I say; for I will be obeyed; at any rate until I have to swear to