The bright morning dawned upon Holyby, the storm had spent itself during the night, and nothing remained to mark that it had been but the greater freshness of the air, clearness of the sky, and the heavy moisture on the grass that sparkled in the sun.
As the young pilgrim sat under an elm-tree, eating the crust which served him for a breakfast, and meditating on the events and the resolutions of the last day, Farmer Joyce came riding along the road, mounted on a heavy horse which often did service in the plough, and drew up as he reached the boy.
“I say, Mark Dowley,” he called in a loud, hearty voice, “you are just the lad I was looking for!”
“Did you want me?” said Mark, raising his eyes.
“Do you know Mr. Ewart?” cried the farmer; and on Mark’s shaking his head, continued, “why, he was talking to me about you yesterday—a clergyman, a tall man with a stoop—he who is tutor to Lord Fontonore.”
“Oh, yes!” cried Mark, springing up, “but I did not know his name. What could he be saying of me?”
“He stopped at my farm on his drive home yesterday, and asked me if I knew a lad called Mark Dowley, and what sort of character he bore. Says I,” continued the farmer, with a broad smile on his jovial face, “I know nothing against that boy in particular, but he comes of a precious bad lot!”
“And what did he reply?” cried Mark, eagerly.