“You are spoiling us, Chris,” old Mrs. Hartley would say every time Chris chanced to be within hearing distance, when she brought the golden butter to the surface from the depths of the uncanny churn; and Chris as invariably remarking, “There is no fear of that, granny dear,” would look as pleased and surprised as though she had not known she could count upon every word of his answer. And now, you see, you have an idea of the quiet, eventless life Chris led on this home visit until one evening in the latter part of June, when something happened. The lane that ran past the meadow and up to the Hartley cottage branched out from the road that led directly to Nuneham from Oxford, and in fine weather there was much driving out that way, so that toward evening Chris would sometimes take a seat on a low gate-post that marked the entrance to the lane and watch the people as they passed. There were always more or less college men among them, driving in stylish drags behind spirited horses or in shabby livery turn-outs, according to their station in life, or rather the condition of their pocket-books. And so it chanced that Chris noticed on this particular June evening--as, in fact, no one could help noticing--a very merry party who rolled by in a dog-cart. They were far too merry, in fact, and so noisy that teams in front of them were glad to make way for them, and those they met most desirous to give them a wide berth. It was evident, however, that the young fellow who held the reins knew perfectly well what he was about, and how to handle his horses, so that no danger was actually to be feared in that direction. But what was true at five o'clock in the afternoon was not true a few hours later, and any one who had seen the same party turn their faces toward home, after a rollicking supper and no end of good cheer at Holly-tree Inn, would have prophesied disaster before they reached it. Wondering if they would make their return trip in safety, Chris himself happened to favor them with his last waking thought, ere he fell asleep in his little room under the eaves--a cosey little room that still was bright even at ten o'clock with the glow of the long English twilight. It was this last conscious thought, no doubt, that made him quick to waken two hours later, when a low, penetrating “Helloa there!” broke the stillness. Springing to the window, he was able to discern two or three men supporting some heavy burden and standing in front of the cottage.