’I am thinking of a change,’ said the yeoman. ’I hope you are going to have as good a housekeeper,’ said Honor; ’a better you cannot have.’ ’Oh!’ he laughed, ’a better, certainly, and—what is quite as certain—a prettier one. If I had not been sure of that, I would not have——’ He checked himself and nodded to the carrier, who laughed. Honor looked from one to the other inquiringly, then asked somewhat sternly, ’You would not have—what, Mr. Langford?’ ’Humph! I would not have taken Charles.’ ’What is the connection?’ asked the girl. ’More things are connected than sleeve-links,’ answered Langford. ’I would not have let your father have the horse if you were thriftless at home. I would not take Charles into service, unless I thought to find in him some of the qualities of the sister.’ ’Put my qualities, such as they are, on one side,’ said Honor roughly. ’That,’ said Langford, looking across at Luxmore, ’that is not to be thought of.’ Then the carrier laughed nervously, and with a side glance at his daughter. Honor coloured. She was offended, but unable to say at what. She put her hand on her little brother’s head and stroked it nervously. Then the yeoman began to talk to the carrier about his estate, the quality of the land, his cows and horses, his woods, his pastures, the money he was able to put away every year, and contrasted his style of farming with that of the Nanspians at Chimsworthy. As he spoke he fixed his eyes on Honor, to see if his wealth impressed her. But her face expressed no concern. It was clouded; she was thinking, not listening. All at once the insinuations of Mrs. Veale rushed into her mind. She saw her meaning. She connected that with the looks of the two men. Blood rushed to her face. She sprang to her feet. The room swam before her eyes. ’I must go,’ she said. ’I am wanted at home.’ *CHAPTER XIII.* *THE REVEL.* If to Sally in our alley and the apprentice who loved her, ’Of all the days within the week there was no day but one day,’ so to all the maids and all the lads in country villages, in olden times, there was no day in all the year that might compare with the day of the village Revel. The Revel is now a thing of the past, or lingers on, a limp and faded semblance of the robust festival that fifty years ago was looked forward to through half the year, and looked back on through the other half, and formed the topic of conversation for the entire twelve months. On Revel day horse-races were run, got up by the village taverner, for a plated mug or a punch ladle; wrestling matches were played for a champion belt, booths were set up in streets of canvas and board for the sale of brooches, ribbons, toys, sweetstuff, and saffron-cakes. There were merry-go-rounds, peep-shows, menageries, and waxworks. The cheap-jack was never wanting, the focus of merriment.