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 much pleasure, we dismounted to ease their load. Trudging up the hill we overtook a good-natured-looking man laden with parcels. After exchanging civilities upon the never-failing topic of the weather with him, we incidentally remarked that it was rather a stiff pull up for a hot day. "That it is," responded the stranger, as he stopped to take breath. "We call it Steep Hill. The worst of Lincolnshire is the hills." We noticed that he spoke quite in earnest, and there was the hill before us much in evidence to give point to his complaint. His remark struck us as a curious comment to those who declare that all Lincolnshire is "as flat as a pancake."

Then he asked us where we were going, and we told him. "Ah!" said he, "you'll pass through Branston, one of the prettiest villages in England, and I say this without prejudice, being a Lincolnshire man." Now, as Branston is a Lincolnshire village, we did not exactly see the sequence, but said nothing.

Presently, when we had reached the top of the hill and were about to remount the dog-cart, the stranger exclaimed, "If you see my wife on the way, she's coming to meet me. Would you mind telling her I'm hurrying on as fast as I can with the good things for dinner?" We replied that we should be most happy to oblige him, but as we had not the pleasure of knowing his wife, it would be rather difficult for us to do as he wished. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "there will be no difficulty in the matter. You can't mistake her, she's over fifteen stone!" So, as we proceeded, we kept an outlook for any one answering that description, and in a mile