"You med have heard of Jacob Spinney’s famous mixture for pimples? Well, ’twas knowed all over Hants and Wilts. ’Twas a rare sight o’ market days to see the farmers’ wives a-troopen into the shop for bottles o’ the mixture. But th’ odd thing was, Spinney hisself was owner of a fair pimpled face, yet never did I know un take a dose o’ his own firm cure. ’I pity ’ee,’ says I to un, as he sat strapped to the chair; ’poor feller, wi’ all those pimples. Shall have a dose, poor soul.’ Many’s the bottle I’d made up: ’twas brimstone and powder o’ crab and gentian root in syrup. Well, I mixed a dose all fresh afore his eyes, and got a long wooden spoon, and slipped the handkercher out o’ his mouth and the dose in. The ungrateful feller spets it out and begins to holler again; so in goes the handkercher, and says I: ’Ye don’t know what’s for your own good. Bean’t it tasty enough? Ah, Master Spinney, often and often ’ee’ve physicked me; what’s good for me without pudden will be better for ’ee with; you shall have a dose.’ So I made un a dose o’ senna and jalap and ipecacuan, but I was slow with the handkercher, and afore I could get the spoon in he had his teeth clinched tight. But I hadn’t nussed the babby for nothen. I ups with finger and thumb and pinches his nose; he opens his mouth for breath, and in goes spoon, and sputter as he med he had to swaller, he did. "Ah, I was wild and headstrong in they young coltish days. I bean’t so fond o’ pudden now. Not but what they mixtures did Jacob Spinney a world o’ good, for his next prentice had a easier time nor me, steppen into his master’s business when he was laid in churchyard. _I_ got no good on ’em, to be sure, for I had to run away and try another line o’ life, and ha’ been a rollen-stone ever since. Ay well, ’tis all one to a man o’ peace." During his narrative the breakfast had been finished. "Well, Sherry, when I’m out of sorts I’ll come to you," said Harry, rising. "Now, while you pack up, I’ll go a stroll up the hillside; there’ll be a good view now the day is clearing, and maybe I’ll get a glimpse of Salisbury spire." He left the river-bank and strolled leisurely up a gentle ascent, which gradually became steeper until it terminated somewhat suddenly in a stretch of level ground. Fifty yards from the edge rose a long grassy mound, a well-known landmark in the neighbourhood. It was, in fact, a barrow, dating centuries back into the dim ages—the burial place, perhaps, of British warriors who had fought and fallen in defence of their country against the Roman invader. Harry had always felt a romantic interest in these memorials of the past, and more than once had stood by such a barrow, alone in the moonlight of a summer night, while his imagination called up visions of far-off forgotten things.