I assured Burbidge that he was quite free, as he expressed it, and I trusted that he would find his brother better than he expected. "Only make him believe that Becky Smout is an impostor," I said, "and has no real power to injure him or his granddaughter, and all will go well." But at this advice Burbidge solemnly shook his head. "They ideas does for the Quality," he grumbled, "but workin' folks know better. Us wouldn't hold such creeds if they warn't deadly real." And so saying, my old friend clumped down the mediæval passage, and I was left thinking how little Shropshire was changed, in spite of board schools and daily papers, from the Shropshire of the Stuarts. A minute later and I heard a child's voice close to my elbow, and saw a little girl, Susie Rowe by name. "You here, Susie?" I said, and asked the reason of her visit. I was told "that grandam was but poorly," and Susie begged for a bit of tea and a drop of broth. "Grandam doesn't know," added Susie, blushing, "for her don't hold to begging; but Betty Beaman, the old body what lives with her, her says, 'Hasten up, my maid, and bring her something nice from the Abbey.'" "Of course," I answered, "Mrs. Harley shall have anything I have." And I called to Auguste to fill the basket with good things. He filled a little can with milk, got a packet of tea and filled a gallipot with _crême de Volaille_ from the larder. Susie passed me a few minutes later, weighed down by her basket, but all smiles, and she promised she would tell her grandmother to expect a visit from me in the course of the afternoon. Just before luncheon my little maiden appeared. She was sad, and silent, and I did not allude to what had taken place yesterday; but at luncheon-time I told her I was going to Homer, and invited her to ride Jill whilst I walked. It was a lovely afternoon, sweet and almost warm, but there was little sunshine. All was enveloped in a soft grey mist. We walked along the lanes, Jill nosing me at intervals for lumps of sugar. Mouse was of the party, and ran backwards and forwards very pleased and gay. A pony is always a pleasure to a dog; it seems to give state and importance to a walk. Tramp and Tartar scampered ahead, and sniffed and skurried round, and up, and down the high banks that skirted the track. At length we reached the lane that turns off from the Wenlock Road, and Farley Dingle, and we stood on the top of the edge before dipping down into the valley to the little hamlet below known as Homer. [Sidenote: BANISTER'S COPPICE]