“Bitter cold night, friend,” said the horseman, checking his steed into a slow walk.

“Yes, it is,” was the sullen answer of the youth.

“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves there in fine style. What made you leave so early?”

“Wasn’t there at all, if you must know.”

“Not invited, I suppose?”

“No; nor didn’t want to be.”

“Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?”

“Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for any money.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?”

“Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth, with a sigh.

“He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting drunk, or poaching?”

“Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.”

“You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?”

“Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley, as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.”

“You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I perceive.”

“I do. Who should know ’em better than me?”

“Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick glance.

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