time somewhat the worse for liquor, now fell into a passion, swore several oaths, and asking me who had made me a Moses over him and his brethren, told me to return to the encampment by myself.  Incensed at the unworthy return which my well-meant words had received, I forthwith left the house, and having purchased a few articles of provision, I set out for the dingle alone.  It was a dark night when I reached it, and descending I saw the glimmer of a fire from the depths of the dingle; my heart beat with fond anticipation of a welcome.  “Isopel Berners is waiting for me,” said I, “and the first words that I shall hear from her lips is that she has made up her mind.  We shall go to America, and be so happy together.”  On reaching the bottom of the dingle, however, I saw seated near the fire, beside which stood the kettle simmering, not Isopel Berners, but a gypsy girl, who told me that Miss Berners when she went away had charged her to keep up the fire, and have the kettle boiling against my arrival.  Startled at these words, I inquired at what hour Isopel had left, and whither she was gone, and was told that she had left the dingle, with her cart, about two hours after I departed; but where she was gone she, the girl, did not know.  I then asked whether she had left no message, and the girl replied that she had left none, but had merely given directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, six-pence into her hand.  “Very strange,” thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire.  I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel.  “Does she mean to return?” thought I to myself.  “Surely she means to return,” Hope replied, “or she would not have gone away without leaving any message”—­“and yet she could scarcely mean to return,” muttered Foreboding, “or she assuredly would have left some message with the girl.”  I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice.  “Well, after all,” thought I, “I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be.  Husbands do not grow upon hedgerows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow.”

Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep.

CHAPTER XVI

Gloomy Forebodings—­The Postman’s Mother—­The Letter—­Bears and Barons—­The Best of Advice.