virtuous intentions in this respect were not destined to be carried into effect, and that the box of books would remain unopened until it was taken back to Oxford in the ensuing October. There was a horse and cart for the luggage; and there was a mail phaeton and pair for the two travellers. Mr. Smalls lighted a fresh cigar, and took the reins; Mr. Bouncer occupied the place beside him with Huz and Buz on the driving-apron at his feet; the coachman jumped up behind; and away they drove from the Poynton Station.
It was six miles to the Woodlands—which was the name of the house where lived Mr. Smalls' father; and it was a very pleasant drive through a richly timbered country, whose wealth of greenery was irradiated by a June sun that was flooding the western sky with a sea of gold. The quick-stepping horses took them along at a rapid pace, along dusty turnpike roads, and down shady tree-arched lanes, until they brought them to a little village, with a scattered group of cottages and farm houses, a smithy, a public-house, a rectory, a new school, an old church, and a large house in a small park, with a tiny lodge at the gate near to the village school.
"Here we are at the Woodlands!" said Mr. Smalls, as he reined up the horses at this little lodge, and returned the greeting of the woman who opened the gate.
"What a pity that I put my post-horn in my portmanteau!" said little Mr. Bouncer. "I generally carry it loose with walking-sticks, umbrellas, fishing-rods, and that sort of gear. If I had it out I could have given a tantivity to signal our approach. 'Hark! 'tis the twanging horn from yonder bridge! he comes, the herald of a noisy world!' and all that sort of thing. Perhaps if I
