It was just such a caravan as may be seen any summer day forming part of the camp on an English common, with the swart face of a gipsy woman looking out at the door, and half a dozen ragged imps and elves rolling on the grass beneath; as may be observed, smothered in wickerwork of all descriptions, or glittering pots and pans, moving from door to door in some sleepy country town, guided by a gloomy gentleman in a velveteen coat and a hareskin cap, and attended by a brawny hussy, also smothered in wickerwork or pots and pans; as, furthermore, may be descried forming part of the procession of a travelling circus, and drawn by a piebald horse which, whenever a good “pitch” is found, will complete its day’s labour by performances in the ring. A caravan of the good old English kind, with small windows ornamented by white muslin curtains, with a chimney atop for the smoke to come through from the fire inside, with a door behind ornamented with a knocker, and only lacking a doorplate to make it quite complete; in short, a house on wheels. The driver, though rough enough, and red with sun and wind, had nothing in common with the ordinary drivers of such vehicles, and, in point of fact, he was neither a gipsy, nor a travelling tinker, nor a circus performer. Though it was summer-time, he wore a large frieze coat, descending almost to his heels, and on his head a wideawake hat, underneath which his lazy, beardless, and somewhat sheepish face shone with indolent good humour. His companion, Master Charles, as he was called, bore still less resemblance to the Bohemians of English lanes and woodlands. He was a slight, handsome, fair-haired young fellow of two or three and twenty, in the tweed attire of an ordinary summer tourist; and every movement he made, every word he spoke, implied the “gentleman born.” Presently, at a signal from his master (such he was), Tim drew rein again. By this time the sun was setting fiery red, far away to the west, and the thin drizzle was becoming more persistent. “How far did they say it was to Pencroes?” “Ten miles, sor.” “The mare is tired out, I think. We shall have to camp by the roadside.” “All right, Master Charles. There’s a handy shelter beyant there where you see the trees,” Tim added, pointing up the road with his whip. The young man looked in that direction, and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, that the highway entered a dark clump of woodland. He nodded assent, and walked rapidly forward, while the caravan followed slowly in his rear.