Uncle John (whose surname was Dawson) was the sole surviving relation from whom I had any expectations. He was my mother's brother, and on the death of both my parents had been left my guardian. He had never married; but about the same time that he undertook to train me in the path in which I should go, he had adopted the orphan child of his brother, and it was almost an understood thing that his property would, at his demise, be equally divided between myself and Grace Dawson, the lady referred to in his letter as cousin Grace. A thorough sportsman of the old school, whose creed lay in horse, hound, and hospitality, he made The Grange as pleasant a place to stop at as one could well find. But there was (as there is in every enjoyment) one drawback--to me at least--and that lay in the "new horse." My worthy uncle, excellent rider as he was, happened to be the worst judge of a horse in the world, and was always picking up wonderful bargains which, unfortunately, he insisted on my trying for him. How it is that I have hitherto escaped with an unbroken neck I cannot say; for there is scarcely any circus-rider in the United Kingdom who dare lay claim to more double somersaults, and I might almost say that I am an expert at flying in all its branches. However, nothing venture nothing have; and I was not going to quarrel with Uncle John through any fear of Uncle John's new horse, besides the attraction of cousin Grace. So I sent an answer accepting the invitation, and giving the train by which I should arrive. It was a cold cheerless afternoon when, having wrapped myself up in my railway-rug, I selected a regalia reina and proceeded to settle myself in the space allotted to me by a magnanimous railway company in a smoking carriage attached to the 3.50 P.M. to Slopton. There are three things that, when travelling, invariably strike me as peculiar; and which I am forced to put down either to the perversity of human nature or the desire not to give too much comfort for the money. First: Why is it that the examination of tickets never takes place until nearly the last moment, when one is well wrapped up and settled--the finding of the required piece of cardboard entailing an undoing of the whole arrangement, a search through an infinity of pockets, a loss of temper, a letting in of much cold air, and, to wind up, the almost positive certainty that, having worked oneself into a fever because the blessed article is not forthcoming, one suddenly remembers that, with a chuckle at one's own 'cuteness and in order not to be disturbed, it had been slipped into the band of one's hat, where it had been staring an idiotic examiner in the face for fully five minutes, he pretending all the while not to have seen it?