‘Well, this is a go!’ said Harry, without the least attempt at the concealment of his surprise. ‘Isn’t it awfully jolly, Horry?’ The brother appealed to nodded in confirmation of the extreme jolliness of the situation, which Oliver was slow to perceive. ‘I never knew these Stanhopes had such a feeling for natural scenery,’ said Oliver to himself, puzzled at his acquaintances’ manner of taking his communication. ‘I thought—give Harry a rowing path or a hunting field, and he would ask no more, while the other had not a mind of his own. But I suppose they admire this,’ and Oliver glanced around him complacently. But Harry was ready to supply a different explanation of his enthusiasm. ‘I knew you hailed from a farm or a mill, old fellow,’ he said, lightly; ‘but I always thought the “’Varsity” old wives were starching and stiffening you, preparatory to turning you out a parson or a schoolmaster. I am glad you knew a thing worth two of that. And Horry and I are in great luck to unearth you here.’ Oliver still remained in a fog as to what the luck could consist of, unless Harry had private views on the fishing in the Brook, and counted on Oliver’s making it sure to him. There was one piece of hospitality which, as Oliver was not really a churl, he did not see he could avoid dispensing. He must invite these fellows into the house to join Fan’s tea-table. He hoped Fan would forgive it, because they were old college men—not merely sightseers. ‘You don’t ask what brings us here,’ said Harry—clearly eager to tell his secret. ‘Why, we are nearly as much at home—at least we shall be soon—as you are. We are the new tenants of Copley Grange Farm. Horry and I are going in for being English yeomen instead of Ceylon coffee planters, as our governors intended we should be. The doctors found Horry’s liver would not stand the tropics, and as the old man and I have always stuck together, the entire project fell to the ground. We made up our minds to rough it at home instead of in the colonies—to descend a few steps in the ladder here, instead of crossing the seas to do it there. Horry and I ain’t either swells or snobs, and we haven’t got handles to our names to make the descent more difficult. We thought we should like nothing better than to become yeomen—since we were not born squires and could not very well be gamekeepers or grooms without ceasing to continue our own masters. There are no English regiments—the more’s the pity—such as the French used to have, into which gentlemen cadets could enlist without losing caste altogether, and being reduced to associate with the scum of the streets and the fields in the guard-room. Any people that we have left, to speak of, are all settled in the northern counties, well out of the reach of the trial of coming across Horry and me driving in a market cart, and selling our own pigs. For that matter, princes of the blood and dukes are pleased to play at being farmers, and I do not see why poor