“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves there in fine style. What made you leave so early?” “Wasn’t there at all, if you _must_ know.” “Not invited, I suppose?” “No; nor didn’t want to be.” “Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?” “Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for any money.” “Why not?” “Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.” “Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?” “Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth, with a sigh. “He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting drunk, or poaching?” “Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.” “You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?” “Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley, as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.” “You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I perceive.” “I do. Who should know ’em better than _me_?” “Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick glance. “They call me Rambling Bob, but Bob Bertram is my real name.” “Bob Bertram?” said the stranger, with a glittering eye. “What, the only son of Farmer Bertram of Four Ash Farm?” “Right, sir. Do ye know him?” “Me? Bless the man, no!” said the horseman. “I don’t know any one hereabouts. I am on my way to a neighbouring village on urgent business.” “More’s the pity then,” said Bob. “You might travel a long way afore you’d find a nicer or kinder old gentleman than Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall.” “So I’ve heard; and he’s very rich also, I am told.” “There’s no mistake about that, sir. He’s a magistrate in the city of London, and is director of one of the best banks there. He adopted two orphan boys, and brought ’em up as his own sons. One’s in the London bank; but young Wildfire Ned, as we call him, won’t do nothing but go to sea. If they only mind themselves they are sure to fall into all Sir Richard’s money. If they don’t, though, and should go astray, they will have the door slammed in their face, as I had to-day.” “You? by your father, Farmer Bertram?” “Yes; and all because some time ago I picked up with a poor village lass as I loved as dearly as I love my life, and promised for to marry.” “And did your father turn you out of house and home on that account?”