Of Bettesworth's young days there is little to be told; and that little was chiefly gleaned from one long conversation, of which, to my regret, I was able to take only the most fragmentary notes.

He was telling of what was, I suppose, the most comfortable period in all his life—of the years, namely, that he spent with the Barnes family at Penstead, after running away from his uncle.

It was as a boy, not twelve years old, that he began work for Farmer Barnes. In those days, fifty years ago, it was the custom for the lads on a farm to live in the farmhouse; and, in Bettesworth's case, this was a privilege that compensated for much that was rugged in his life. From his tone in talking of the Barneses you may be sure that they were good to him. The day's work would be hard and thorough; but at the close of it there would be any amount of bread and bacon and plenty of home-brewed beer, and in the winter a sure drowsy place by the kitchen fire. Hearing Bettesworth, it is not difficult to picture the open hearth, with its chimney-corners; the fire-shine glowing out dim and ruddy upon flitches of bacon hung round the room, and reddening upon the faces of the sleepy boys.