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A boy is lolling on the green grass in front of a cottage door an uncombed English hind, with a face of rustic simplicity and stolid ignorance. At last we come to a gate which bars the road. The driver gets down and opens it, and when we have passed through in the fly he tells us we are now on Mr. Stanley's broad estate of Paultons.

Appleford." Mary Ann no doubt had other virtues, but they are not recorded: this is sufficient for a servant. An hour's ride on the velvet cushions of a railway carriage brings us, with our Paultons friends, the Boyce boys, to Southampton, which was an old town when King Canute was young.

"Send the landlord, please." The landlord comes, bowing low, and we make inquiries concerning the distance to Paultons, the estate where the Boyces have been spending the summer, and where we venture to hope they still are. He says it is a matter of four miles, and that we can have a fly over for six shillings.

"Well, we must be off. Time's up. We shall miss the train. Good-bye, boys. You can sit still and finish your dinner in peace." Good-bye to our friends from Paultons good-bye. And then we rush out, and do miss the train. It is five o'clock ten minutes and a quarter. English trains go on time English dinners don't. We finally get off at seven o'clock.