Life seems never so desirable as in typical days of autumn, when the year rallies of its disease and makes a brave effort to renew its thoughtless morning with a few withering leaves. Of all the motley months, none is so pathetic as October in its likeness to an aging lady, striving to salve by gentleness the unhealed wounds inflicted of her earlier pugnacity. Mr. Tuke’s spirits rose as he advanced. He seemed already in touch with the world again--a butterfly of the second brood emerged from a buried larva. He met a few clowns, and acknowledged their salutations brightly. His voice rose and cracked in snatches of romantic song, and he greeted with pleasure whatever landmarks he remembered. Of these, the “Dog and Duck” stood as unchanged as any tree or hillock; for on the window-sill of the tap the same figure lounged and smoked. The rider got a better view of the fellow as he stood broadly in the sunlight. He was built sturdily, with something of an air of the sea about him; and his coat was bedecked with trinketry of faded gold, like an old galley-foist. But his face, red as brick and patched with eyebrows like tags of wild clematis-down, was a cut-throat one by every sinister mark. As before--the traveller past--he swung heavily out into the road to watch his going. “I’ve an eye for you, my friend,” murmured the baronet. “What do you do in this happy valley, where winds and waters should be the only forces to strive with?” He was pondering a little all the way to Stockbridge; and there Betty Pollack came upon him with a blush and a smile, like a posy of sweetbriar, and drew his honour a mug of ale. She knew him now by report, of course; and was curious, with the gossips of the neighbourhood, as to the history of his mysterious coming. Near all the years of her short life, “Delsrop,” unclaimed and deserted, had been lonely, enchanted ground for the builders of local tradition to lay their airy bricks on. “Is your honour for Winchester?” she said. “The evenings draw in, and it’s well to be over the downs by sunset. There have been bad characters about of late.” “Betty,” said he, “will you give me a curl to put over my heart for a charm?” She laughed and then looked grave. “I’m not that sort,” she said. “I keep my favours for my inferiors.” “And what am I but one?” “Well,” said she, “I think you are, to talk so.” It was like a glimpse of an orchard through a wall-wicket to tarry with her a moment; but he must needs be up and onward if he wished to reach the old Burgh before dark fell. Therefore he mounted and went his way, whereby we need not pursue him; for it was devoid of incident, and of much emotion but weariness. He slept that night at the “George,” and the next morning sought out his agent and went deep into matters of business with him.