In a tumult of feeling I rode on without looking behind me, careless whither--how long I cannot tell, before I woke up to find I did not know where I was. I must ride on till I came to some place I knew, or met some one who could tell me. Lane led into lane, buried betwixt deep banks and lofty hedges, or passing through small woods, until I ascended a rising ground, whence I got a view of the country. At once its features began to dawn upon me: I was close to the village of Aldwick, where I had been at school, and in a few minutes I rode into its wide straggling street. Not a mark of change had passed upon it. There were the same dogs about the doors, and the same cats in the windows. The very ferns in the chinks of the old draw-well appeared the same; and the children had not grown an inch since first I drove into the place marvelling at its wondrous activity. The sun was hot, and my horse seemed rather tired. I was in no mood to see any one, and besides had no pleasant recollections of my last visit to Mr Elder, so I drew up at the door of the little inn, and having sent my horse to the stable for an hour’s rest and a feed of oats, went into the sanded parlour, ordered a glass of ale, and sat staring at the china shepherdesses on the chimney-piece. I see them now, the ugly things, as plainly as if that had been an hour of the happiest reflections. I thought I was miserable, but I know now that, although I was much disappointed, and everything looked dreary and uninteresting about me, I was a long way off misery. Indeed, the passing vision of a neat unbonneted village girl on her way to the well was attractive enough still to make me rise and go to the window. While watching, as she wound up the long chain, for the appearance of the familiar mossy bucket, dripping diamonds, as it gleamed out of the dark well into the sudden sunlight, I heard the sound of horse’s hoofs, and turned to see what kind of apparition would come. Presently it appeared, and made straight for the inn. The rider was Mr Coningham! I drew back to escape his notice, but his quick eye had caught sight of me, for he came into the room with outstretched hand. ‘We are fated to meet, Mr Cumbermede,’ he said. ‘I only stopped to give my horse some meal and water, and had no intention of dismounting. Ale? I’ll have a glass of ale too,’ he added, ringing the bell. ‘I think I’ll let him have a feed, and have a mouthful of bread and cheese myself.’ He went out, and had I suppose gone to see that his horse had his proper allowance of oats, for when he returned he said merrily: ‘What have you done with my daughter, Mr Cumbermede?’ ‘Why should you think me responsible for her, Mr Conningham?’ I asked, attempting a smile. No doubt he detected the attempt in the smile, for he looked at me with a sharpened expression of the eyes, as he answered--still in a merry tone--