you to know it.”  He was about to begin, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the surgeon.  The surgeon examined into the state of my bruised limb, and told me, what indeed I already well knew, that it was rapidly improving.  “You will not even require a sling,” said he, “to ride to Horncastle.  When do you propose going?” he demanded.  “When do you think I may venture?” I replied.  “I think, if you are a tolerably good horseman, you may mount the day after to-morrow,” answered the medical man.  “By-the-bye, are you acquainted with anybody at Horncastle?” “With no living soul,” I answered.  “Then you would scarcely find stable-room for your horse.  But I am happy to be able to assist you.  I have a friend there who keeps a small inn, and who, during the time of the fair, keeps a stall vacant for any quadruped I may bring, until he knows whether I am coming or not.  I will give you a letter to him, and he will see after the accommodation of your horse.  To-morrow I will pay you a farewell visit, and bring you the letter.”  “Thank you,” said I; “and do not forget to bring your bill.”  The surgeon looked at the old man, who gave him a peculiar nod.  “Oh!” said he, in reply to me, “for the little service I have rendered you, I require no remuneration.  You are in my friend’s house, and he and I understand each other.”  “I never receive such favours,” said I, “as you have rendered me, without remunerating them; therefore I shall expect your bill.”  “Oh! just as you please,” said the surgeon; and shaking me by the hand more warmly than he had hitherto done, he took his leave.

On the evening of the next day, the last which I spent with my kind entertainer, I sat at tea with him in a little summer-house in his garden, partially shaded by the boughs of a large fig-tree.  The surgeon had shortly before paid me his farewell visit, and had brought me the letter of introduction to his friend at Horncastle, and also his bill, which I found anything but extravagant.  After we had each respectively drank the contents of two cups—­and it may not be amiss here to inform the reader that though I took cream with my tea, as I always do when I can procure that addition, the old man, like most people bred up in the country, drank his without it—­he thus addressed me:- “I am, as I told you on the night of your accident, the son of a breeder of horses, a respectable and honest man.  When I was about twenty he died, leaving me, his only child, a comfortable property, consisting of about two hundred acres of land and some fifteen hundred pounds in money.  My mother had died about three years previously.  I felt the death of my mother keenly, but that of my father less than was my duty; indeed, truth compels me to acknowledge that I scarcely regretted his death.  The cause of this want of proper filial feeling was the opposition which I had experienced from him in an affair which deeply concerned me.  I had formed an attachment for a young female in the neighbourhood,