The old baronial Palace of Wells, surrounded by its moat and reached by a drawbridge—not raised now as in olden times,—is in perfect harmony with the city in which it stands. In it, but not of it; for when once the gateway is passed, the near neighbourhood of the market-place is forgotten, such traffic as this little city knows is left behind; and the gardens of the Palace might well be supposed to be far from all human habitations, so complete is the repose which broods over it. Encircled by battlemented walls, and standing in a wide demesne, a stranger is at once struck with the unusual beauty of its surroundings.

Mr. Arundel's admiration rather disconcerted his friend.

"Come on, Arundel. Don't stare about like that; some of the family may be at the windows."

But Mr. Arundel did not heed his friend's entreaty.

"Come on; it is so like a country clodhopper to stand looking at a big house, as if you had never seen one before."

"I never have seen one before, in the least like this big house," was the reply; "and what are those ruins? It is odd, Falconer, that you never prepared me for the beautiful things I was to find in Somersetshire."

"It's a mighty damp place," Melville said. "Rheumatism and low fever haunt the servants' quarters, which are on a level with the moat; but, my dear fellow, do come on."

"Can't we cross over to that old wall? It is like a glimpse of Paradise through there."

"No, no, we must go up to the front like well-mannered folk. Come, don't be so obstinate, Arundel."

Whether Melville would have succeeded in his attempts to draw his friend towards the entrance-porch, which stood in the centre of a long line of windows of the lower story of this side of the Palace, I do not know, had not a clerical figure in knee-breeches and shovel hat, been seen advancing over the emerald turf, and approaching the two young men.

Melville began to show signs of nervousness, and the grand air which he maintained to his inferiors gave place to a rather servile and cringing manner, as he carefully removed his high narrow hat from his curled head and, bowing low, said:

"My lord, my friend Mr. Arundel is anxious to pay his respects to you."

The bishop looked with keen grey eyes at Melville, and said stiffly:

"Mr. Falconer's son, I think?"

"Yes, my lord; your lordship's humble servant," again bowing till the tails of his short-waisted coat stood up like those of a robin-redbreast.

"Arundel, Arundel," the bishop repeated; "Arundel: the name is familiar to me."

"My mother, my lord, had the honour of your lordship's acquaintance some years ago. She was Annabella Thorndeane."

The bishop's somewhat stiff manner changed at once. He extended his hand, and said:

"To have known your mother is to bear her always in affectionate remembrance. Where is she living?"

"Since my father's death, my lord, my mother has had no settled home. She has lived within reach of me, first at Winchester, and then at Oxford. Now she will settle where I do."

"And what profession are you taking, may I inquire?"

"The law I believe; things are not yet decided, my lord; but there is some notion of a partnership in Bristol, when I have passed the needful examinations."

"Well, well, we must have lawyers, and can no more do without them than doctors, eh?" All this time Melville had fidgeted, and felt annoyed at the bishop's coldness to him. "I am alone just now in the Palace; health, or rather the search for health, has taken the ladies to the east coast, a very distant spot—Cromer in Norfolk. But bracing was recommended, and our Western sea cannot come under that head. But will you walk round; I shall be pleased to show you over the grounds, and the gallery, where the portraits of my predecessors hang. One has the mark of a bullet in his cheek, caught in the battle of Sedgemoor. All our surroundings speak of warlike times, and there are moments now when I feel as if I would gladly pull up my drawbridge and have done with the world without. There is strife in the streets, and storms even in our little tea-cup, I can assure you."

The bishop now led the way round to the gardens at which Arundel had looked with longing eyes through the ruins. Suddenly the bishop turned sharply on Melville, looking him down from head to foot with anything but an approving glance.

"And what profession, sir, do you mean to take up?—law, like your friend—or what?"

"I am going to travel for a year, my lord."

"Travel! humph! Your good father has several sons, I think?"

"Four younger sons, my lord; so much the worse for me."

"I hope you set them a good example," said the bishop, drily. "I should venture to suggest that your father might want help with his estate."

"He has a steward, my lord, an old servant."

"Stewards mean money, don't they? and a gentleman with a small landed property cannot be overburdened with that article nowadays, more especially if he has five sons."

Melville's brow clouded, and he would fain, if he had dared, given vent to some rather uncomplimentary adjectives, of which "old meddler" was one.

"Here," said the bishop, "are the ruins of the old Hall, where, report says, the last abbot of Glastonbury was hanged. He was tried here by the king's orders, for suppression of some of the church lands which the king had seized. That," pointing to the end of the Palace, "is the part of the building which was blown down, or, rather, the roof blown in, upon one of my predecessors during the last century. Both Bishop Kidder and his wife were buried in their bed in the ruins. But not to dwell on these memories, I have pleasanter ones to recount. On that terrace walk, where we will now mount and take a view of the surrounding country, the pious Ken—that God-fearing and steadfast man—composed the hymns, which, morning and night, bring him to our minds."

Melville Falconer had forgotten, if he had ever heard, those hymns; but Mr. Arundel said:

"My mother will be interested, indeed, my lord, to hear I have been on the spot where those hymns had birth."

"Ay," said the bishop; "and we must have her here one day and show her this fair place. One can imagine, as he gazed out on this prospect, that the saintly Ken was eager to call on every one to 'shake off dull sloth,' and rise early with the birds to offer the sacrifice of the morning."

It was indeed a fair prospect towards which the bishop waved his hand. Fields of buttercups lay like burnished gold in the summer sunshine. Beyond these fields, known as the Bishop's Fields, was a belt of copse, and further still the grassy slopes of a hill, really of no very exalted height, but from its strongly defined outline and the sudden elevation of its steep sides from the valley below it, it assumes almost mountainous proportions, and is a striking feature in the landscape as seen from Wells and its neighbourhood. A wooded height, known as Tor Hill, rises nearer to the Palace, and then the line sweeps round to the Mendip range, which shuts in Wells on the north-east, and across which a long, straight road lies in the direction of Bristol.

The bishop continued to chat pleasantly as he led his visitors along the broad terrace walk on the top of the battlemented wall. Then he passed down into the garden, and ascended a spiral stone staircase which led to a small ante-chamber, and then into the long gallery.

This room is one of the principal features of the Palace at Wells, with its long line of small, deep bay windows, and its beautiful groined roof, the walls covered with portraits of many bishops who have held the see.

Archbishop Laud looks down with a somewhat grim face, like a man who had set himself to endure hardness, and never flinch from the line he had marked out for himself. Saintly Ken, too, is there, and keen, thin-lipped Wolsey, who had not learned when he sat for that picture the bitter lesson which his old age brought him, not to put his trust in princes, or in any child of man.

The war-like bishop, too, with the hole in his cheek, had, a very unwarlike expression.

"A jolly old fellow!" Mr. Arundel remarked; "not like a man who cared to handle a musket or bayonet."

"No; appearances are deceitful at times," the bishop said. "The stairs up which we came, open into my study, from that little ante-chamber; and I confess I should take flight by them and get into the chapel if by chance the Palace is besieged."

"Not much fear of that," Melville said, "in these days."

"These days are not as quiet as they may look, young sir. It strikes me, before you are grey-headed, there will be a desperate struggle between law and anarchy—between the king and the people. The horizon is dark enough. There are graver matters pressing than gewgaws and finery and personal indulgence. We are too much given in Wells to look upon it as the world, and refuse to believe in the near approach of the storm of which there are signs already, and not far from us. But, young gentlemen, I have an appointment, and must not delay if I wish to be punctual. I shall hope to see you again, Mr. Arundel. How long will you be in our neighbourhood?"

"For a few days, my lord."

"Well, well. I shall come out to Fair Acres with my son, and pay my respects to your excellent parents, Mr. Falconer, of whom I have heard much during my short residence in Wells."

The young men felt that the time for departure had come, and taking leave of the bishop, they passed under the old gateway, and were again on the square of green turf which separated it from the cloister door.

A row of noble elms skirted the moat, and Melville proposed that they should take a turn under them. The moat was full, and the stately swans came sailing towards the sloping bank, where two girls were standing. Quaint figures now we should think they were, with the short, plain skirts of their frocks bordered with a narrow frill, thin white stockings, which sandalled shoes displayed to advantage, and little tippets crossed over their shoulders surmounted by large gipsy hats or bonnets. But nothing could destroy the symmetry of the arm and hand, which was stretched out towards the swans with a bit of bread. And Mr. Arundel exclaimed:

"There are the two girls we saw in the cathedral Falconer; one is your sister."

Before Melville could rejoin, Joyce had turned, and now came forward to her brother with heightened colour, saying:

"I think my father will be ready to go home now, Melville, and we had better go back to the Swan."

Charlotte all this time had been posing before her grand cousin and his friend, hoping to attract his attention.

"Introduce me, Falconer," Mr. Arundel said, standing with a native grace which characterised him, with his hat in his hand.

"My sister," said Melville, carelessly, "and my cousin, Miss Benson;" and he was passing on to continue his walk towards the Bishop's Fields; but Mr. Arundel did not follow him.

"Your sister says we shall be wanted at the Swan Inn, and must not linger by the live swans."

"Oh, no; we are going to Fair Acres quite independently of my father. I have ordered our carriage; you ought to come to the end of the Moat, there is a fine view of Dulcot."

But Mr. Arundel showed no intention of following his friend. "Nay," he said, "let me see the swans have the last bit of bun. See, they are coming for it. Do you always bring them buns?"

"Not always; but I had a convenient halfpenny left from the change at Willmott's, so I went to buy a stale bun at the little shop in Saddler Street."

"Happy swans to be so remembered!" Mr. Arundel said, as he watched the last wedge of the stale bun gobbled up by the master of the brood, while his wife gave him a savage peck with her black bill.

"It is a pity they are so greedy; it spoils their beauty," Joyce said. Then, with sudden recollection, she said, "Oh! Charlotte, I have forgotten to take Piers' sparrow-hawk to Mr. Plume's. I must go at once to Aunt Letitia's and fetch it. I left it in the basket there."

"Can I go and fetch the sparrow-hawk, Miss Falconer?" Mr. Arundel began.

"Come, Arundel," Melville interrupted, "you and I can stroll round this moat; we are not returning, as I told you, with Joyce."

But Mr. Arundel deliberately turned in the direction in which Joyce was hastening; and Charlotte, much to her cousin's vexation, was left with him.

A muttered exclamation, which was not fit for ears polite to hear, escaped Melville's lips, and Charlotte's soft speeches were lost on him.

"It is so nice to see you here, Cousin Melville. Won't you come and pay auntie a visit?"

Melville had particularly desired to escape a visit to the Vicar's Close, but he began to fear it was inevitable.

"Do tell me about college," Charlotte began. "I am dying to hear, because I have a special interest in college now." This was said with a smile and glance which were meant to make an impression. "And do you wear one of those sweet hoods with snow-white fur round it, Cousin Melville? They do look so pretty!"

"Well—no," drawled Melville, evasively; "I have not taken my B.A. yet."

"Mr. Bamfylde, the new minor Canon at the cathedral, wears one; and it is so charming!"

"Humph!" Melville rejoined.

What were all the minor canons in the world to him that he should care whether they wore fur-lined or silk-lined hoods at their backs?

They had reached the turnstile now leading into the Cathedral Green.

"I say," he began, "I think I must bid you good-bye here, Charlotte. I will call on Aunt Letitia another day, for I must look after the carriage. I am afraid there should be some mistake. I want a pair of greys to post with, and I should not wonder if they tried to pass off two old bays, with their bones just through their skins."

And the next minute the fine gentleman was sauntering off in the opposite direction to poor Charlotte, who went away disconsolate.

Meantime Mr. Arundel and Joyce had walked quickly to the Vicar's Close, and Joyce, having captured her basket with the dead bird, was surprised to find Mr. Arundel waiting for her at the little gate.

"Mr. Plume's shop is in New Street," she said. "It is scarcely to be called a shop, but there are a few stuffed birds in the window. We must go up the steps by the chapel into the North Liberty."

Mr. Arundel was struck with the business-like fashion in which Joyce conducted her interview with Mr. Plume.

He was a little dried-up-looking man, whose front parlour had that peculiar scent which is characteristic of rooms where stuffed animals are kept.

Mr. Plume did not confine himself to birds. A large fox, with gleaming teeth and glassy eyes, stared at the customers from a shelf in a recess by the fire-place. A badger was on another; and owls of all sizes and colours were standing, with one foot tucked up, and a certain stony stare in their great round, unshadowed eyes.

Mr. Plume did not waste words.

"Sparry-'awk," he said "sparry-'awk; it is of not great value, missie. Humph!" he continued, "it's not a rare speciment, but I'll set it up. How's the young gentleman, eh?"

"Quite well, thank you, Mr. Plume; and please have the bird ready by the next time we come into Wells. We must not stop now; but what a noise those men are making."

As she spoke, Mr. Arundel went out to the door, and Joyce, peeping through the cases in the window, saw a cart being dragged up the hill towards the Bristol Road by four rough-looking men. Another huge man sat in the cart, his head lolling upon his breast, evidently the worse for drink. A few wild-looking men and boys and a lean pony followed; and two or three women, with their hair hanging down their backs, brought up the rear; and all were shouting at the top of their voices some rhyme, the drift of which was, that the justices had got the worst of it, and that Bob was free.

"What does it all mean?" Mr. Arundel said.

"Oh, it's only some of the rough Mendip folk. One of 'em was taken up for snaring rabbits, and there was a great row. I suppose the justices have let him off—afraid to do anything else. There is a deal of ill-blood in them parts; and they say it's even worse in the cities than what it is in the country. Dear me!" said Mr. Plume, stroking the back of a stuffed spaniel which was handy. "It's a thousand pities folks can't mind their own business, instead of annoying respectable folks. Good-day to you, Miss Falconer. Good-day to you, sir."

When outside the shop Joyce paused and watched the straggling crowd wind up the steep hill.

"It is dreadful to see people like this," she said, with a sigh. "I must ask father about it; for he has been sitting on the bench to-day. I hope they are not angry with him."

"I hope not," Mr. Arundel said; "they look little better than savages, and would knock any one on the head for a trifle."

"We must make haste," Joyce said, "for father does not like to be kept waiting, and mother expects us home to tea. I dare say we shall get to Fair Acres before you do."

"Why can't we all drive together?" Mr. Arundel asked.

Joyce hesitated a moment, but only for a moment.

"You are thought too grand to drive in our four-wheel," she said, smiling.

"Grand! Who said so?"

"Melville, of course. He said you would be shocked to rumble and jolt over the roads, and that your luggage must go on the roof of the post-chaise."

Mr. Arundel laughed a merry, pleasant laugh, and said:

"I am sorry your brother should have given you such a bad account of me. Poor fellow!"

Joyce looked up quickly.

"Then you don't think exactly as Melville does?"

"No, I hope not," was the reply.

"But he is a friend of yours, is not he?"

"Yes, he is a friend—up to a certain point. Do not think me ungracious."

"Oh! no. I understand."

"Melville thinks a great deal of you, and is so proud that you have come here. I am glad you have come also, now I have seen you, though when I first heard you were coming I dreaded it; and so did mother. But I must not stop to talk any more now, except to ask you to make mother feel as you have made me feel, that you are not so very grand, after all."

The squire was seen at the door of the Crown as Joyce and Mr. Arundel turned into Saddler Street, and Joyce ran quickly towards him. Her father waved his hand impatiently.

"Come, Joyce; come, make haste!"

In another moment she had mounted to her seat by his side, and they were off at a quick trot. The good old horse knew that her head was turned homewards and went cheerily down the High Street, past the noble church of St. Cuthbert, where there was no traffic to impede its progress.

The squire was silent until they were fairly out of the town, when he said:

"So your grand brother can't ride in his father's carriage! He and his fine friend may pay for the chaise; I shall not."

"I do not think the friend is fine after all," Joyce said; "he laughed at the idea of the post-chaise."

The squire cracked his whip impatiently.

"He may well laugh. Ah! little Joyce, there are many graver questions at issue than the freaks of an over-indulged, reckless boy like Melville. We had a stormy scene in the court to-day. That man who was let off a month, in gaol richly deserved punishment; but there was a division on the bench and my conviction was overruled."

"Oh!" Joyce exclaimed, "I saw a crowd of rough people going up the Bristol Road; they had taken a pony out of a cart, and were dragging it up the hill, with a man in it, who was half asleep."

"Half drunk," said the squire; "that is more likely. They are a rough lot on Mendip, more like savages than the inhabitants of a civilised country."

"What is to be done to make them better, father? Has not Mrs. More tried to get the children taught?"

"Yes, she has been trying for years to make the schools succeed; but there is plenty of labour and little to show for it."

"Perhaps," said Joyce, "there is some good done, though we don't see it. It is always easier to see bad things than good ones; so easy to see faults in those about us, and to be blind to their goodness."

The squire laughed; between this father and daughter there existed a sympathetic friendship wholly independent of the natural tie of parent and child.

"You are right, Joyce, quite right; but I am afraid one does not need glasses to find out the bad things."

"Father, let us put them on to find the good ones, then," Joyce rejoined.

The squire leaned back, and let the old horse go her own pace, and her own way.

"Ah! my little Joyce, that is wise advice. Thank God, I need no spectacles to find out the good in you. I look to you to keep things smooth at home for the next few days, and to help me to do the same. I am quick-tempered, I know, and when I flare out, I am sorry afterwards."

"You don't often 'flare out,' as you say, to me, dear dad."

"What did your aunt say to you to-day?—called you her 'rustic,' I'll answer for it."

"Oh, yes, of course she did; and she wants me to pay a grand visit to Barley Wood."

"To Barley Wood!—to Mrs. Hannah More! Mother won't hear of it. Your aunt had better not meddle. What do you think about it yourself?"

"I should like to pay a visit—a short visit—to Barley Wood. That is quite different from going to school. But with the boys coming home, and Melville and his friend at Fair Acres, I doubt if I could be spared. It might do me good to go, father; I mean, make me all the more useful at home afterwards."

"What do you expect Mrs. Hannah More to do to you?—cut you into a pattern, as she would cut an old woman's cloak, eh? However, if you wish to go, and any more is said, I'll manage it for you. Perhaps no more will be said; your aunt is just as likely to forget all about it."

"Yes, I know that," Joyce said, with a little ring of disappointment in her voice.

"I'll tell you what pattern I would not have you cut into on any account; and that is poor die-away, languishing Charlotte Benson. Poor thing! if she is a specimen of boarding-schools and accomplishments, I would sooner have Jane Watson for a daughter."

"Charlotte paints flowers very well, father," Joyce said; "and she has worked a figure in Berlin wool of a woman in a red gown feeding chickens; and——"

They had been jogging along at a very leisurely pace, and the sound of fast-trotting horses made Joyce look back.

"To the right, father! quick! it's the post-chaise from the Swan."

The squire pulled up towards the high hedge, and the post-chaise dashed past, the luggage behind, and the two young men lying back in it. The gates of Fair Acres were in sight, and the carriage turned in with an imposing flourish of the post-boy's whip.

"Look here, Joyce, that is a sign of the times. That poor foolish popinjay of ours is only drifting on with the tide. He has brought another young fellow, I daresay, as idle as himself, to eat my bread and give himself airs. Well, I will put up with it for a week, and then both have notice to quit; nor do I desire to see either of them darken my door again. Melville shall travel if he likes, but it shall be across the water—to America, where, if a little of this nonsense is not knocked out of him, my name is not Arthur Falconer."

With this outburst of masculine indignation the squire subsided, and then quietly drove round to the stables, while the post-chaise was being unloaded at the front door; and Melville was giving the post-boy as large a "douceur"—or, as we should have it called in these days, a "tip"—as befitted the imitator of the first gentleman in Europe.