By him sat another Englishman, to whom the three tuneful Snowdon guides, their music-score upon their knees, sat listening approvingly, as he rolled out, with voice as of a jolly blackbird, or jollier monk of old, the good old Wessex song:-- "My dog he has his master's nose, To smell a knave through silken hose; If friends or honest men go by, Welcome, quoth my dog and I! "Of foreign tongues let scholars brag, With fifteen names for a pudding-bag: Two tongues I know ne'er told a lie; And their wearers be, my dog and I!" "That ought to be Harry's song, and the colly's too, eh ?" said he, pointing to the dear old dog, who sat with his head on Owen's knee--"eh, my men?
Here's a health to the honest man and his dog!" And all laughed and drank; while Elsley's dark face looked in at the doorway, and half turned to escape.

Handsome lady-like Mrs.Owen, bustling out of the kitchen with a supper-tray, ran full against him, and uttered a Welsh scream.
"Show me a room, and bring me a pen and paper," said he; and then started in his turn, as all had started at him; for the two Englishmen looked round, and, behold, to his disgust, the singer was none other than Naylor; the actor of Punch was Wynd.
To have found his _betes noires_ even here, and at such a moment! And what was worse, to hear Mrs.Owen say,--"We have no room, sir, unless these gentlemen--" "Of course," said Wynd, jumping up, a child under each arm.

"Mr.
Vavasour! we shall be most happy to have your company,--for a week if you will!" "Ten minutes' solitude is all I ask, sir, if I am not intruding too far." "Two hours, if you like.

We'll stay here.

Mrs.Owen,--the thicker the merrier." But Elsley had vanished into a chamber bestrewn with plaids, pipes, hob-nail boots, fishing-tackle, mathematical books, scraps of ore, and the wild confusion of a gownsman's den.
"The party is taken ill with a poem," said Wynd.
Naylor stuck out his heavy under-lip and glanced sidelong at his friend.
"With something worse, Ned.