“I never heard tell of any name but that; she is John Shelley’s foster daughter,” answered the man, glancing at the second half-crown, which was now lying by the side of the first. “And where does John Shelley live?” “At Bournemer, about a mile and a half from here.” “_Comment?_ How do you call it, Bonnemère? How can I get there?” “Can’t say; it ain’t easy to find,” said the blacksmith, thinking the Frenchman had had his five shillings’ worth, and, as was evident from his manner, resolved not to enlighten him any further. “Easy or difficult, I shall find it, my civil friend,” said the young Frenchman, in French, and then, raising his hat, he wished the blacksmith good-day, and left the forge, muttering to himself a criticism on the manners of these English not over flattering to our nation. “Palavering jackanapes, talking a tongue that no one understands but himself! What has the shepherd’s Fairy to do with him, I should like to know? But there don’t appear to be any scarcity of half-crowns with him; seems made up of them. A queer customer—a mighty queer customer; I wonder where he hails from.” And so saying, the blacksmith went to his door to look after the young Frenchman. The stranger walked up the High-street to the Crown, where he had left his horse, and when it was brought to him, innocently asked the ostler if he could get back to Oafham, where he was staying, by Bournemer. “Yes, sir; you can go across yonder meadows; there is a drift right through them which will bring you out close upon John Shelley, the shepherd’s, house; go past that and turn sharp to your right, that will take you straight back to the park,” said the ostler, giving the stranger all the information he required for nothing. A few minutes later the blacksmith strolled casually up to the inn, and inquired of the ostler who that foreign gentleman was. “Dunnow; reckon he is some relation of Lady Oafham up at Oafham Park; they say my lady’s sister is married to a French gentleman; anyhow, he is staying there. I know the mare.” “He is a rum customer, wherever he is staying. He didn’t happen to ask you where John Shelley lived, did he now?” said the blacksmith. “No, but I happened to tell him,” returned the ostler. “More fool you, then. Ah! he is a queer customer.” And muttering to himself all the way down the street, the blacksmith returned to his forge.