be made by "the Solicitor" himself, and that if it so pleased him, my coming of age that day week would be a fitting occasion. It was hard to keep the tidings to myself, but it appeared right to me that my father, who had gained it, should publish his victory. In his letter he said nothing to guide me. I determined to take counsel of the Vicar of Crowle, my uncle by marriage with my mother's sister. But when I reached Crowle, it became doubtful whether I should impart the great news even to Mr. Graves, who had a high sense of his importance as the parson of a parish, and might be unable to resist the temptation to be the first to announce the good news. The next day would be Sunday, I remembered. To think of this awhile longer, I turned my horse into a track, which wound up a little hill that over-topped the town. As soon as I gained the crown of the hill, a tumult of angry shouts and the noise of barking dogs came to my ears, and I rode down the track toward the spot from which the sounds arose. A thick growth of trees hindered my view until I came to an open glade, where a number of men and lads, perhaps two score, were gathered round an old oak. They seemed to be threatening some one. As I drew nearer, I saw a young and beautiful woman, seated on a root of the old tree, her back against the trunk, and one arm partly folded in her cloak, round the neck of a fawn, huddled closely to her. The cloak had been torn in two or three places, and through the rents showed the whiteness of her arm stained with blood. Her face was deathly pale, but her eyes were bright and dauntless.

The fellows parted right and left as I rode up, and some of them seemed half ashamed of themselves before I spoke.

"What devilry is this?" I shouted. "You vile cowards! To set your dogs on a woman!"

A stout fellow, whose face bore many scars of old wounds, nicknamed Stride-a-mile from his skill in stilt-walking, answered me boldly enough—

"The devilry is none of ours. The foreign woman has bewitched the fawn, and won't give it up. How could we hinder the dogs snapping at her?"

"You lie, you rascal," I replied. "The curs are harmless enough now that you are not hissing them on."

Half a dozen mongrel hounds were whimpering and snarling and growling round the lady, but not attempting to bite.

"Maybe I am a liar and a coward and a devil, Master Vavasour," said Stride-a-mile; "but the fawn is ours, and we mean to have it. We found it and the doe yonder"—pointing to a carcase which lay on the ground thirty yards off—"out of forest bounds, and we've chased it, and 'tis ours." The fellow looked round on his comrades, some of whom answered the look by gripping cudgels, displaying their big knives, or setting their crossbows.

Boiling with rage at what I deemed the fellow's insolence, and forgetting the odds against me, and what might happen to the lady, if I should be overborne, I raised my riding-whip, and touched Trueboy's side with my heel, when an oldish man, whom I did not know, stepped between me and Stride-a-mile, saying—

"A parley, squire. 'Twould be a bad day's work if harm came to you; and venison isn't worth any man's life. Maybe the lady will explain to you why she wants the whole fawn. It would go bad long before she could eat it all. If she would be satisfied with a haunch, now, we won't say her nay."

Angry though I was, I could not forbear laughing that the lady should be suspected of so inordinate desire of venison, but I knew no more than the fat fellow himself what her reason was for keeping their game from the rabble. I looked at her inquiringly.

She spoke in a clear, sweet voice. "When its mother fell, and the dogs sprang upon her, the poor little creature ran straight to me, and its dear, brown eyes said, 'Save me,' as well as eyes can speak. How could I be so cruel as to refuse its suppliant plea?"

As her own fawn-like eyes were lifted to me, I wished I could paint the beautiful face as a picture of the Mother of Pity.

"Will the men take money for the fawn, if they wish to eat it?" she asked, holding out a piece of gold between thumb and finger.

Most of the men brightened at the suggestion, but Stride-a-mile answered—

"Who's to say 'tis good? No foreign tokens for us. For aught we know 'tis witches' money, and will turn to cinder."

"Oh, if that's your objection," said I, "here's a twenty-shilling laurel," which I tossed to him.

The magic of money! The sulky clowns were happy on the instant. They gave a cheer for the "young Squire of Belwood," and hurried off to pick up the doe, and then, doubtless, to the ale-house.

Dismounting, I inquired whether the lady had friends at hand to whose care I might take her.

"My father and I are lodging at the inn of the White Hart," she said, rising to her feet, but immediately sinking again, with a little moan. "I am afraid walking is out of my power," she said. "My ankle is disabled. If you will do me the kindness to acquaint my father, Doctor Goel, with my position, he will know what to do."

"Pardon me, but that would be waste of time, and time is precious," I answered. "Your hurts should be seen to without delay. If you can manage to sit my horse, I will lead him gently."

A faint smile crossed her face, drawn with pain though it was.

"I have never ridden a horse, and should probably fall; for, to tell the truth, I have some fear that I may swoon."

She was so pale, and such a dimness had come into her eyes that I feared so, too.

"Then we must needs ride double," said I, jumping into the saddle. "I will take you in front of me, and there will be no risk of your falling."

"But the little deer," she cried. "We cannot leave the poor little beast."

I was ready to curse the "little beast," but there was no gainsaying the lady, so I leaped down again, took up the fawn, and scrambling up on the roots of the old oak, which was hollow, thrust it through a great hole, and let it drop inside.

Regaining my saddle, I said, "The fawn will be safe, until we have leisure to return. Now for the White Hart."

With some difficulty, I drew the lady on to Trueboy's back, and putting one arm round her waist, set off at a canter. Happily, she did not swoon, and in ten minutes we arrived at the inn, where the stout hostess and Nancy the maid received the lady into their arms, and carried her to an inner room, making a great outcry of pity and astonishment, and asking twenty questions in a breath. Committing Trueboy to Mat the ostler, I followed, in time to catch a glimpse of the lady laid on a squab, and of a tall, spare man of sixty or thereabout bending over her. Then the door was closed, and I seated myself in the common room, and waited, while Mistress Hind and her maid bustled about with jugs and basins of water, hot and cold, and towels and clean rags, shaking their heads, and sighing and exclaiming after the manner of their kind. Growing impatient of the noise they made, I walked out into the inn yard, and remembering that the fawn was still in the wood, and that the lady would be concerned about the creature, I despatched Mat with a handcart, rope, et cetera, to bring it to the inn.

When I re-entered the house, the old man came to the door of the inner chamber, and making a sweeping bow, addressed me in French, signifying that his daughter wished to have speech with me. I returned his bow, and followed into the room, where the lady lay, a little colour now in her cheeks, and in her eyes a mirthful light. I thought I had never seen woman half so lovely, and I think so still.

"Be seated, sir, if you please," she said. "I have yet to thank you for your courage and kindness."

I interrupted her. "Are the wounds likely to be healed soon? Is there no peril of lameness, or enduring mischief?" I asked, half turning to her father.

"My father has little English," said she. "Perhaps you speak French?"

I shook my head; for, though I knew something of the tongue, I much preferred to converse through the charming