you. You'll keep to the roads, I'm sure, till harvest's in: though they mayn't be over good for a carriage, they're very fair for a bridle. That's the ground I stand upon."
As Vivian was returning home, he intended to look in at a pretty cottage near the park, where lived one John Conyers, an honest husbandman, and a great friend of Vivian's. This man had, about a fortnight ago, been of essential service to our hero, when a vicious horse, which he was endeavouring to cure of some ugly tricks, had nearly terminated his mortal career.
"Why are you crying so, my boy?" asked Vivian of a little Conyers, who was sobbing bitterly at the cottage door. He was answered only with desperate sobs. "Is your father at home?"
"Oh, 'tis your honour!" said a decent-looking woman, who came out of the cottage; "I thought they had come back again."
