How Mr. Frampton, without giving the slightest warning of his intention, or there being anything in the subject of the conversation generally to lead thereunto, began to relate his adventure with the tiger of Bundleapoor; while Lawless favoured the company with a full, true and particular account of a surprising run with the royal stag-hounds; and Archer, who had grown sentimental, with tears in his eyes, entered into a minute detail of certain passages in a romantic attachment he had conceived for a youthful female branch of the aristocracy, whom he designated as Lady Barbara B.; and how these three gentlemen continued their various recitals all at one and the same time, edifying the company by some such composite style of dialogue as the following:—

“So, sir, Slingsby roused me by a kick in the ribs, saying —umph!”—“Fairest, loveliest of thy sex,”—“Shove on your boots and buckskins, stick a cigar in your mouth, and clap your leg over,”—“An elephant half as high again as this room; take a couple of double-barrelled rifles, and”—“Slap at everything that comes in your way; no craning, ram in the persuaders, and if you do get a purl”—“Look upon it as the purest, brightest gem in your noble father's coronet, for true affection”—“Flung him clean into the tiger's jaws, sir, and the beast”—“Drew her handkerchief across her eyes, and said, in a voice which quivered with emotion, 'Love between two young creatures, situated as we are, would be utter madness, Charles'. To which I replied, 'Barbara, my own sweet girl,'”—“Mind your eye, and look out for squalls, for that's a rasper, and no mistake”.

How all this took place, together with much more notable merriment, not many degrees removed from “tipsy mirth and jollity,” we will leave to the fertile imagination of the reader to depict. Suffice it to say that, ere we broke up, Mr. Frampton had distinctly pledged himself to ride one of Lawless's horses the next hunting-day, and to accompany Archer on a three weeks' visit to the country seat of Lady Barbara B.'s noble father, with some ulterior views on his own account in regard to a younger sister.

CHAPTER XXXII — CATCHING SIGHT OF AN OLD FLAME

UTTERLY worn out, both in mind and body, by hard reading and confinement, I determined to return to Heathfield forthwith, with “all my blushing honours thick upon me,” and enjoy a few weeks' idleness before again engaging in any active course of study which might be necessary to fit me for my future profession. When the post came in, however, I received a couple of letters which rather militated against my intention of an immediate return home. A note from Harry Oaklands informed me, that having some weeks ago been ordered to a milder air, he and Sir John had chosen Clifton, their decision being influenced by the fact of an old and valued friend of Sir John's residing there. He begged me to let him hear all the Cambridge news, and hoped I should join him as soon as Mrs. Fairlegh and my sister would consent to part with me. For himself, he said, he felt somewhat stronger, but still suffered much from the wound in his side. The second letter was from my mother, saying she had received an invitation from an old lady, a cousin of my father's, who resided in London, and, as she thought change of scene would do Fanny good, she had accepted it. She had been there already one week, and proposed returning at the end of the next, which she hoped would be soon enough to welcome me after the conclusion of my labours at the university.

Unable to make up my mind whether to remain where I was for a week longer, or to return and await my mother's arrival at the cottage, I threw on my cap and gown and strolled out, the fresh air appearing quite a luxury to me after having been shut up so long. As I passed through the street where old Maurice the pastry-cook lived I thought I would call and learn how Lizzie was going on, as I knew Harry would be anxious for information on this point. On entering the shop I was most cordially received by the young lady herself, who had by this time quite recovered her good looks, and on the present occasion appeared unusually gay and animated, which was soon accounted for when her father, drawing me aside, informed me that she was going to be married to a highly respectable young baker, who had long ago fallen a victim to her charms, and on whom she had of late deigned to take pity; the severe lesson she had been taught having induced her to overlook his intense respectability, high moral excellence, and round, good-natured face—three strong disqualifications which had stood dreadfully in his way when striving to render himself agreeable to the romantic Fornarina. I was answering their inquiries after Oaklands, of whom they spoke in terms of the deepest gratitude, when a young fellow, wrapped up in a rough pea-jacket, bustled into the shop, and, without perceiving me, accosted Lizzie as follows:—

“Pray, young lady, can you inform me—what glorious buns!—where Mr.—that is to say, which of these funny old edifices may happen to be Trinity College?”

On receiving the desired information, he continued, “Much obliged. I really must trouble you for another bun. Made by your own fair hands, I presume? You see, I'm quite a stranger to this quaint old town of yours, where half the houses look like churches, and all the men like the parsons and clerks belonging to them, taking a walk in their canonicals, with four-cornered hats on their heads—abortive attempts to square the circle, I conclude. Wonderful things, very. But when I get to Trinity, how am I to find the man I want, one Mr. Frank Fairlegh?” Here I took the liberty of interrupting the speaker, whom I had long since recognised as Coleman—though what could have brought him to Cambridge I was at a loss to conceive—by coming behind him, and saying, in a gruff voice, “I am sorry you keep such low company, young man”.

“And pray who may you be that are so ready with your 'young man,' I should like to know? I shall have to teach you something your tutors and dons seem to have forgotten, and that is, manners, fellow!” exclaimed Freddy, turning round with a face as red as a turkey-cock, and not recognising me at first in my cap and gown; then looking at me steadily for a moment, he continued, “The very man himself, by all that's comical! This is the way you read for your degree, is it?” Then with a glance towards Lizzie Maurice, he sang:—

It's a Master of Hearts you're striving to become, I suppose?”

“Nonsense,” replied I quickly, for I saw poor Lizzie coloured and looked uncomfortable; “we don't allow bad puns to be made at Cambridge.”

“Then, faith, unless the genius loci inspires me with good ones,” returned Freddy, as we left the shop together, “the sooner I'm out of it the better.”

Ten minutes' conversation served to inform me that Freddy, having been down to Bury St. Edmund's on business, had stopped at Cambridge on his way back in order to find me out, and, if possible, induce me to accompany him home to Hillingford, and spend a few days there. This arrangement suited my case exactly, as it nearly filled up the space of time which must elapse before my mother's return, and I gladly accepted his invitation. In turn, I pressed him to remain a day or two with me, and see the lions of Cambridge; but it appeared that the mission on which he had been despatched was an important one, and would not brook delay; he must therefore return at once to report progress. As he could not stay with me, the most advisable thing seemed to be that I should go back with him. Returning, therefore, to my rooms, I set Freddy to work on some bread and cheese and ale, whilst I hastened to cram a portmanteau and carpet-bag with various indispensables. I then ran to the Hoop, and took an affectionate farewell of Mr. Frampton, making him promise to pay me a visit at Heathfield Cottage; and, in less than two hours from the time Coleman had first made his appearance, we were seated together on the roof of a stage-coach, and bowling along merrily towards Hillingford.

During our drive Coleman recounted to me his adventures in search of Cumberland on the day preceding the duel, and gave me a more minute description than I had yet heard of the disreputable nature of that individual's pursuits. From what Coleman could learn, Cumberland, after having lost at the gaming-table large sums of money, of which he had by some means contrived to obtain possession, had become connected with a gambling-house not far from St. James's Street, and was supposed to be one of its proprietors. Just before Coleman left town, there had been an exposé of certain shameful proceedings which had taken place at this house—windows had been broken, and the police obliged to make a forcible entrance; but Cumberland had as yet contrived to keep his name from appearing, although it was known that he was concerned in the affair, and would be obliged to keep out of the way at present. “We shall take the old lady by surprise, I've a notion,” said Freddy, as the coach set us down within ten minutes' walk of Elm Lodge. “I did not think I should have got the Bury St. Edmund's job over till to-morrow, and wrote her word not to expect me till she saw me; but she'll be glad enough to have somebody to enliven her, for the governor's in town, and Lucy Markham is gone to stay with one of her married sisters.”

“I hope I shall not cause any inconvenience, or annoy your mother.”

“Annoy my grandmother! and she was dead before I was born!” exclaimed Freddy disdainfully. “Why, bless your sensitive heart, nothing that I can do annoys my mother: if I chose to bring home a mad bull in fits, or half a dozen young elephants with the hooping-cough, she would not be annoyed.” Thus assured, nothing remained for me but silent acquiescence, and in a few minutes we reached the house.

“Where's your mistress?” inquired Freddy of the man-servant who showed us into the drawing-room.

“Upstairs, sir, I believe; I'll send to let her know that you are arrived.”

“Do so,” replied Coleman, making a vigorous attack upon the fire.

“Why, Freddy, I thought you said your cousin was away from home?” inquired I.

“So she is; and what's more, she won't be back for a fortnight,” was the answer.

“Here's a young lady's bonnet, however,” said I.

“Nonsense,” replied he; “it must be one of my mother's.”

“Does Mrs. Coleman wear such spicy affairs as this?” said I, holding up for his inspection a most piquant little velvet bonnet lined with pink.

“By Jove, no!” was the reply; “a mysterious young lady! I say, Frank, this is interesting.”

CHAPTER XXXIII — WOMAN'S A RIDDLE

“DON'T you consider Fairlegh to be looking very thin and pale, Miss Saville?” inquired Coleman, when we joined the ladies after dinner, speaking with an air of such genuine solicitude, that any one not intimately acquainted with him must have imagined him in earnest. Miss Saville, who was completely taken in, answered innocently, “Indeed I have thought Mr. Fairlegh much altered since I had the pleasure of meeting him before”; then, glancing at my face with a look of unfeigned interest, which sent the blood bounding rapidly through my veins, she continued: “You have not been ill, I hope?” I was hastening to reply in the negative, and to enlighten her as to the real cause of my pale looks, when Coleman interrupted me by exclaiming:—

“Ah! poor fellow, it is a melancholy affair. In those pale cheeks, that wasted though still graceful form, and the weak, languid, and unhappy, but deeply interesting tout ensemble, you perceive the sad results of—am I at liberty to mention it?—of an unfortunate attachment.”

“Upon my word, Freddy, you are too bad,” exclaimed I half angrily, though I could scarcely refrain from laughing, for the pathetic expression of his countenance was perfectly irresistible. “Miss Saville, I can assure you—let me beg of you to believe, that there is not a word of truth in what he has stated.”

“Wait a moment, you're so dreadfully fast, my dear fellow, you won't allow a man time to finish what he is saying,” remonstrated my tormentor—“attachment to his studies I was going to add, only you interrupted me.”

“I see I shall have to chastise you before you learn to behave yourself properly,” replied I, shaking my fist at him playfully; “remember you taught me how to use the gloves at Dr. Mildman's, and I have not quite forgotten the science even yet.”

“Hit a man your own size, you great big monster you,” rejoined Coleman, affecting extreme alarm. “Miss Saville, I look to you to protect me from his tyranny; ladies always take the part of the weak and oppressed.”

“But they do not interfere to shield evil-doers from the punishment due to their misdemeanours,” replied Miss Saville archly.

“There now,” grumbled Freddy, “that's always the way; every one turns against me. I'm a victim, though I have not formed an unfortunate attachment for—anything or anybody.”

“I should like to see you thoroughly in love for once in your life, Freddy,” said I; “it would be as good as a comedy.”

“Thank ye,” was the rejoinder, “you'd be a pleasant sort of fellow to make a confidant of, I don't think. Here's a man now, who calls himself one's friend, and fancies it would be 'as good as a comedy' to witness the display of our noblest affections, and would have all the tenderest emotions of our nature laid bare, for him to poke fun at—the barbarian!” “I did not understand Mr. Fairlegh's remark to apply to affaires du cour in general, but simply to the effects likely to be produced in your case by such an attack,” observed Miss Saville, with a quiet smile.

“A very proper distinction,” returned I; “I see that I cannot do better than leave my defence in your hands.”

“It is quite clear that you have both entered into a plot against me,” rejoined Freddy; “well, never mind, mea virtute me involvo: I wrap myself in a proud consciousness of my own immeasurable superiority, and despise your attacks.”

“I have read, that to begin by despising your enemy, is one of the surest methods of losing the battle,” replied Miss Saville.

“Oh! if you are going to quote history against me, I yield at once—there is nothing alarms me so much as the sight of a blue-stocking,” answered Freddy.

Miss Saville proceeded to defend herself with much vivacity against this charge, and they continued to converse in the same light strain for some time longer; Coleman, as usual, being exceedingly droll and amusing, and the young lady displaying a decided talent for delicate and playful badinage. In order to enter con spirito into this style of conversation, we must either be in the enjoyment of high health and spirits, when our light-heartedness finds a natural vent in gay raillery and sparkling repartee, or we must be suffering a sufficient degree of positive unhappiness to make us feel that a strong effort is necessary to screen our sorrow from the careless gaze of those around us. Now, though Coleman had not been far wrong in describing me as “weak, languid, and unhappy,” mine was not a positive, but a negative unhappiness, a gentle sadness, which was rather agreeable than otherwise, and towards which I was by no means disposed to use the slightest violence. I was in the mood to have shed tears with the love-sick Ophelia, or to moralise with the melancholy Jaques, but should have considered Mercutio a man of no feeling, and the clown a “very poor fool” indeed. In this frame of mind, the conversation appeared to me to have assumed such an essentially frivolous turn, that I soon ceased to take any share in it, and, turning over the leaves of a book of prints as an excuse for my silence, endeavoured to abstract my thoughts altogether from the scene around me, and employ them on some subject less dissonant to my present tone of feeling. As is usually the result in such cases, the attempt proved a dead failure, and I soon found myself speculating on the lightness and frivolity of women in general, and of Clara Saville in particular.

“How thoroughly absurd and misplaced,” thought I, as her silvery laugh rang harshly on my distempered ear, “were all my conjectures that she was unhappy, and that, in the trustful and earnest expression of those deep blue eyes, I could read the evidence of a secret grief, and a tacit appeal for sympathy to those whom her instinct taught her were worthy of her trust and confidence! Ah! well, I was young and foolish then (it was not quite a year and a half ago), and imagination found an easy dupe in me; one learns to see things in their true light as one grows older, but it is sad how the doing so robs life of all its brightest illusions.”

It did not occur to me at that moment that there was a slight injustice in accusing Truth of petty larceny in regard to a bright illusion in the present instance, as the fact (if fact it were) of proving that Miss Saville was happy instead of miserable could scarcely be reckoned among that class of offences.

“Come, Freddy,” exclaimed Mrs. Coleman, suddenly waking up to a sense of duty, out of a dangerous little nap in which she had been indulging, and which occasioned me great uneasiness, by reason of the opportunity it afforded her for the display of an alarming suicidal propensity, which threatened to leave Mr. Coleman a disconsolate widower, and Freddy motherless.

As a warning to all somnolent old ladies, it may not be amiss to enter a little more fully into detail. The attack commenced by her sitting bolt upright in her chair, with her eyes so very particularly open, that it seemed as if, in her case, Macbeth or some other wonder-worker had effectually “murdered sleep”. By slow degrees, however, her eyelids began to close; she grew less and less “wide awake,” and ere long was fast as a church; her next move was to nod complacently to the company in general, as if to demand their attention; she then oscillated gently to and fro for a few seconds to get up the steam, and concluded the performance by suddenly flinging her head back, with an insane jerk, over the rail of the chair, at the imminent risk of breaking her neck, uttering a loud snort of triumph as she did so.

Trusting the reader will pardon, and the humane society award me a medal for this long digression, I resume the thread of my narrative.

“Freddy, my dear, can't you sing us that droll Italian song your cousin Lucy taught you? I'm sure poor Miss Saville must feel quite dull and melancholy.”

“Would to Heaven she did!” murmured I to myself. “Who is to play it for me?” asked Coleman. “Well, my love, I'll do my best,” replied his mother; “and, if I should make a few mistakes, it will only sound all the funnier, you know.”

This being quite unanswerable, the piano was opened, and, after Mrs. Coleman's spectacles had been hunted for in all probable places, and discovered at last in the coal-scuttle, a phenomenon which that good lady accounted for on the score of “John's having flurried her so when he brought in tea”; and when, moreover, she had been with difficulty prevailed on to allow the music-book to remain the right way upwards, the song was commenced.

As Freddy had a good tenor voice, and sang the Italian buffa song with much humour, the performance proved highly successful, although Mrs. Coleman was as good as her word in introducing some original and decidedly “funny” chords into the accompaniment, which would have greatly discomposed the composer, if he had by any chance overheard them.

“I did not know that you were such an accomplished performer, Freddy,” observed I; “you are quite an universal genius.”

“Oh, the song was capital!” said Miss Saville, “and Mr. Coleman sang it with so much spirit.”

“Really,” returned Freddy, with a low bow, “you do me proud, as brother Jonathan says; I am actually— that is, positively—”

“My dear Freddy,” interrupted Mrs. Coleman, “I wish you would go and fetch Lucy's music; I'm sure Miss Saville can sing some of her songs; it's—let me see—yes, it's either downstairs in the study, or in the boudoir, or in the little room at the top of the house, or, if it isn't, you had better ask Susan about it.”

“Perhaps the shortest way will be to consult Susan at once,” replied Coleman, as he turned to leave the room.

“I presume you prefer buffa songs to music of a more pathetic character?” inquired I, addressing Miss Saville.

“You judge from my having praised the one we have just heard, I suppose?”

“Yes, and from the lively style of your conversation; I have been envying your high spirits all the evening.”

“Indeed!” was the reply; “and why should you envy them?”

“Are they not an indication of happiness, and is not that an enviable possession?” returned I.

“Yes, indeed!” she replied in a low voice, but with such passionate earnestness as quite to startle me. “Is laughing, then, such an infallible indication of happiness?” she continued.

“One usually supposes so,” replied I.

To this she made no answer, unless a sigh can be called one, and, turning away, began looking over the pages of a music-book.

“Is there nothing you can recollect to sing, my dear?” asked Mrs. Coleman.

She paused for a moment as if in thought, ere she replied:—

“There is an old air, which I think I could remember; but I do not know whether you will like it. The words,” she added, glancing towards me, “refer to the subject on which we have just been speaking.”

She then seated herself at the instrument, and, after striking a few simple chords, sang, in a sweet, rich soprano, the following stanzas;—

The air to which these words were set was a simple, plaintive, old melody, well suited to their expression, and Miss Saville sang with much taste and feeling. When she reached the last four lines of the second verse, her eyes met mine for an instant, with a sad, reproachful glance, as if upbraiding me for having misunderstood her; and there was a touching sweetness in her voice, as she almost whispered the refrain, “Ah! well-a-day!” which seemed to breathe the very soul of melancholy.

“Strange, incomprehensible girl!” thought I, as I gazed with a feeling of interest I could not restrain, upon her beautiful features, which were now marked by an expression of the most touching sadness—“who could believe that she was the same person who, but five minutes since, seemed possessed by the spirit of frolic and merriment, and appeared to have eyes and ears for nothing beyond the jokes and drolleries of Freddy Coleman?”

“That's a very pretty song, my dear,” said Mrs. Coleman; “and I'm very much obliged to you for singing it, only it has made me cry so, it has given me quite a cold in my head, I declare;” and, suiting the action to the word, the tender-hearted old lady began to wipe her eyes, and execute sundry other manoeuvres incidental to the malady she had named. At this moment Freddy returned, laden with music-books. Miss Saville immediately fixed upon a lively duet which would suit their voices, and song followed song, till Mrs. Coleman, waking suddenly in a fright, after a tremendous attempt to break her neck, which was very near proving successful, found out that it was past eleven o'clock, and consequently bed-time.

It can scarcely be doubted that my thoughts, as I fell asleep (for, unromantic as it may appear, truth compels me to state that I never slept better in my life), turned upon my unexpected meeting with Clara Saville. The year and a half which had elapsed since the night of the ball had altered her from a beautiful girl into a lovely woman. Without in the slightest degree diminishing its grace and elegance, the outline of her figure had become more rounded, while her features had acquired a depth of expression which was not before observable, and which was the only thing wanting to render them (I had almost said) perfect. In her manner there was also a great alteration; the quiet reserve she had maintained when in the presence of Mr. Vernor, and the calm frankness displayed during our accidental meeting in Barstone Park, had alike given way to a strange excitability, which at times showed itself in the bursts of wild gaiety which had annoyed my fastidious sensitiveness in the earlier part of the evening, at others in the deep impassioned feeling she threw into her singing, though I observed that it was only in such songs as partook of a melancholy and even despairing character that she did so. The result of my meditations was, that the young lady was an interesting enigma, and that I could not employ the next two or three days to better advantage than in “doing a little bit of OEdipus.” as Coleman would have termed it, or, in plain English, “finding her out “;—and hereabouts I fell asleep.

CHAPTER XXXIV — THE RIDDLE BAFFLES ME!

THE post next morning brought a letter from Mr. Vernor to say that, as he found the business on which he was engaged must necessitate his crossing to Boulogne, he feared there was no chance of his being able to return under a week, but that, if it should be inconvenient for Mrs. Coleman to keep Miss Saville so long at Elm Lodge, he should wish her to go back to Barstone, where, if she was in any difficulty, she could easily apply to her late hostess for advice and assistance. On being brought clearly (though I fear the word is scarcely applicable to the good lady's state of mind at any time) to understand the position of affairs, Mrs. Coleman would by no means hear of Miss Saville's departure; but, on the contrary, made her promise to prolong her stay till her guardian should return, which, as Freddy observed, involved the remarkable coincidence that if Mr. Vernor should be drowned in crossing the British Channel, she (his mother) would have put her foot in it. The same post brought Freddy a summons from his father, desiring him, the moment he returned from Bury with the papers, to proceed to town immediately. There was nothing left for him, therefore, but to deposit himself upon the roof of the next coach, blue bag in hand, which he accordingly did, after having spent the intervening time in reviling all lawyers, clients, deeds, settlements, in fact, every individual thing connected with the profession, excepting fees.

“Clara and I are going for a long walk, Mr. Fairlegh, and we shall be glad of your escort, if you have no objection to accompany us, and it is not too far for you,” said Mrs. Coleman (who evidently considered me in the last stage of a decline), trotting into the breakfast-room where I was lounging, book in hand, over the fire, wondering what possible pretext I could invent for joining the ladies.

“I shall be only too happy,” answered I, “and I think I can contrive to walk as far as you can, Mrs. Coleman.” “Oh! I don't know that,” was the reply, “I am a capital walker, I assure you. I remember a young man, quite as young as you, and a good deal stouter, who could not walk nearly as far as I can; to be sure,” she added as she left the room, “he had a wooden leg, poor fellow!”

I soon received a summons to start with the ladies, whom I found awaiting my arrival on the terrace walk at the back of the house, comfortably wrapped up in shawls and furs, for, although a bright sun was shining, the day was cold and frosty.

“You must allow me to carry that for you,” said I, laying violent hands on a large basket, between which and a muff Mrs. Coleman was in vain attempting to effect an amicable arrangement.

“Oh, dear! I'm sure you'll never be able to carry it—it's so dreadfully heavy,” was the reply.

“Nous verrons,” answered I, swinging it on my forefinger, in order to demonstrate its lightness.

“Take care—you mustn't do so!” exclaimed Mrs. Coleman in a tone of extreme alarm; “you'll upset all my beautiful senna tea, and it will get amongst the slices of Christmas plum-pudding, and the flannel that I'm going to take for poor Mrs. Muddles's children to eat; do you know Mrs. Muddles, Clara, my dear?”

Miss Saville replied in the negative, and Mrs. Coleman continued:—

“Ah! poor thing! she's a very hard-working, respectable, excellent young woman; she has been married three years, and has got six children—no! let me see—it's six years, and three children—that's it—though I can never remember whether it's most pigs or children she has—four pigs, did I say?—but it doesn't much signify, for the youngest is a boy and will soon be fat enough to kill—the pig I mean, and they're all very dirty, and have never been taught to read, because she takes in washing, and has put a great deal too much starch in my night-cap this week—only her husband drinks—so I mustn't say much about it, poor thing, for we all have our failings, you know.”

With suchlike rambling discourse did worthy Mrs. Coleman beguile the way, until at length, after a walk of some two miles and a half, we arrived at the cottage of that much-enduring laundress, the highly respectable Mrs. Muddles, where, in due form, we were introduced to the mixed race of children and pigs, between which heads clearer than that of Mrs. Coleman might have been at a loss to distinguish; for if the pigs did not exactly resemble children, the children most assuredly looked like pigs. Here we seemed likely to remain for some time, as there was much business to be transacted by the two matrons. First, Mrs. Coleman's basket was unpacked, during which process that lady delivered a long harangue, setting forth the rival merits of plum-pudding and black draught, and ingeniously establishing a connexion between them, which has rendered the former nearly as distasteful to me as the latter ever since. Thence glancing slightly at the overstarched night-cap, and delicately referring to the anti-teetotal propensities of the laundress's sposo, she contrived so thoroughly to confuse and interlace the various topics of her discourse, as to render it an open question, whether the male Muddles had not got tipsy on black draught, in consequence of the plum-pudding having overstarched the night-cap; moreover, she distinctly called the latter article “poor fellow!” twice. In reply to this, Mrs. Muddles, the skin of whose hands was crimped up into patterns like sea-weed, from the amphibious nature of her employment, and whose general appearance was, from the same cause, moist and spongy, expressed much gratitude for the contents of the basket, made a pathetic apology to the night-cap, tried to ignore the imbibing propensity of her better half; but, when pressed home upon the point, declared that when he was not engaged in the Circe-like operation of “making a beast of hisself,” he was one of the most virtuousest of men; and finally wound up by a minute medical detail of Johnny's chilblain, accompanied by a slight retrospective sketch of Mary Anne's departed hooping-cough. How much longer the conversation might have continued, it is impossible to say, for it was evident that neither of the speakers had by any means exhausted her budget, had not Johnny, the unfortunate proprietor of the chilblain above alluded to, seen fit to precipitate himself, head-foremost, into a washing-tub of nearly scalding water, whence his mamma, with great presence of mind and much professional dexterity, extricated him, wrung him out, and set him on the mangle to dry, where he remained sobbing, from a vague sense of humid misery, till a more convenient season.

This little incident reminding Mrs. Coleman that the boiled beef, preparing for our luncheon and the servants' dinner, would inevitably be overdone, induced her to take a hurried farewell of Mrs. Muddles, though she paused at the threshold to offer a parting suggestion as to the advisability, moral and physical, of dividing the wretched Johnny's share of plum-pudding between his brothers and sisters, and administering a double portion of black draught by way of compensation, an arrangement which elicited from that much-wronged child a howl of mingled horror and defiance.

We had proceeded about a mile on our return, when Mrs. Coleman, who was a step or two in advance, trod on a slide some boys had made, and would have fallen had I not thrown my arm round her just in time to prevent it.

“My dear madam,” exclaimed I, “you were as nearly as possible down; I hope you have not hurt yourself.”

“No, my dear—I mean—Mr. Fairlegh; no! I hope I have not, except my ankle. I gave that a twist somehow, and it hurts me dreadfully; but I daresay I shall be able to go on in a minute.”

The good lady's hopes, however, were not destined in this instance to be fulfilled, for, on attempting to proceed, the pain increased to such an extent, that she was forced, after limping a few steps, to seat herself on a stone by the wayside, and it became evident that she must have sprained her ankle severely, and would be utterly unable to walk home. In this dilemma it was not easy to discover what was the best thing to do—no vehicle could be procured nearer than Hillingford, from which place we were at least two miles distant, and I by no means approved of leaving my companions in their present helpless state during the space of time which must necessarily elapse ere I could go and return. Mrs. Coleman, who, although suffering from considerable pain, bore it with the greatest equanimity and good nature, seeming to think much more of the inconvenience she was likely to occasion us, than of her own discomforts, had just hit upon some brilliant but totally impracticable project, when our ears were gladdened by the sound of wheels, and in another moment a little pony-chaise, drawn by a fat, comfortable-looking pony, came in sight, proceeding in the direction of Hillingford. As soon as the driver, a stout, rosy-faced gentleman, who proved to be the family apothecary, perceived our party, he pulled up, and, when he became aware of what had occurred, put an end to our difficulties by offering Mrs. Coleman the unoccupied seat in his chaise.

“Sorry I can't accommodate you also, Miss Saville,” he continued, raising his hat; “but you see it's rather close packing as it is. If I were but a little more like the medical practitioner who administered a sleeping draught to Master Romeo now, we might contrive to carry three.”

“I really prefer walking such a cold day as this, thank you, Mr. Pillaway,” answered Miss Saville.

“Mind you take proper care of poor Clara, Mr. Fairlegh,” said Mrs. Coleman, “and don't let her sprain her ankle, or do anything foolish, and don't you stay out too long yourself and catch cold, or I don't know what Mrs. Fairlegh will say, and your pretty sister, too—what a fat pony, Mr. Pillaway; you don't give him much physic, I should think—good-bye, my dears, good-bye—remember the boiled beef.”

As she spoke, the fat pony, admonished by the whip, described a circle with his tail, frisked with the agility of a playful elephant, and then set off at a better pace than from his adipose appearance I had deemed him capable of doing.

“With all her oddity, what an unselfish, kind-hearted, excellent little person Mrs. Coleman is!” observed I, as the pony-chaise disappeared at an angle of the road.

“Oh! I think her charming,” replied my companion warmly, “she is so very good-natured.”

“She is something beyond that,” returned I; “mere good-nature is a quality I rate very low: a person may be good-natured, yet thoroughly selfish, for nine times out of ten it is easier and more agreeable to say 'yes' than 'no'; but there is such an entire forgetfulness of self, apparent in all Mrs. Coleman's attempts to make those around her happy and comfortable, that, despite her eccentricities, I am beginning to conceive quite a respect for the little woman.”

“You are a close observer of character it seems, Mr. Fairlegh,” remarked my companion.

“I scarcely see how any thinking person can avoid being so,” returned I; “there is no study that appears to me to possess a more deep and varied interest.”

“You make mistakes, though, sometimes,” replied Miss Saville, glancing quickly at me with her beautiful eyes.

“You refer to my hasty judgment of last night,” said I, colouring slightly. “The mournful words of your song led me to conclude that, in one instance, high spirits might not be a sure indication of a light heart; and yet I would fain hope,” added I in a half-questioning tone, “that you merely sought to inculcate a general principle.”

“Is not that a very unusual species of heath to find growing in this country?” was the rejoinder.

“Really, I am no botanist,” returned I, rather crossly, for I felt that I had received a rebuff, and was not at all sure that I might not have deserved it.

“Nay, but I will have you attend; you did not even look towards the place where it is growing,” replied Miss Saville, with a half-imperious, half-imploring glance, which it was impossible to resist.

“Is that the plant you mean?” asked I, pointing to a tuft of heath on the top of a steep bank by the roadside.

On receiving a reply in the affirmative, I continued: “Then I will render you all the assistance in my power, by enabling you to judge for yourself “. So saying, I scrambled up the bank at the imminent risk of my neck; and after bursting the button-holes of my straps, and tearing my coat in two places with a bramble, I succeeded in gathering the heath.

Elated by my success, and feeling every nerve braced and invigorated by the frosty air, I bounded down the slope with such velocity, that, on reaching the bottom, I was unable to check my speed, and only avoided running against Miss Saville, by nearly throwing myself down backwards.

“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed I; “I hope I have not alarmed you by my abominable awkwardness; but really the bank was so steep, that it was impossible to stop sooner.”

“Nay, it is I who ought to apologise for having led you to undertake such a dangerous expedition,” replied she, taking the heath which I had gathered, with a smile which quite repaid me for my exertions.

“I do not know what could have possessed me to run down the bank in that insane manner,” returned I; “I suppose it is this fine frosty morning which makes one feel so light and happy.”

“Happy!” repeated my companion incredulously, and in a half-absent manner, as though she were rather thinking aloud than addressing me.

“Yes,” replied I, surprised; “why should I not feel so?”

“Is any one happy?” was the rejoinder.

“Very many people, I hope,” said I; “you do not doubt it, surely.”

“I well might,” she answered with a sigh.

“On such a beautiful day as this, with the bright clear sky above us, and the hoar-frost sparkling like diamonds in the glorious sunshine, how can one avoid feeling happy?” asked I.

“It is very beautiful,” she replied, after gazing around for a moment; “and yet can you not imagine a state of mind in which this fair scene, with all its varied charms, may impress one with a feeling of bitterness rather than of pleasure, by the contrast it affords to the darkness and weariness of soul within? Place some famine-stricken wretch beneath the roof of a gilded palace, think you the sight of its magnificence would give him any sensation of pleasure? Would it not rather, by increasing the sense of his own misery, add to his agony of spirit?”

“I can conceive such a case possible,” replied I; “but you would make us out to be all famine-stricken wretches at this rate: you cannot surely imagine that every one is unhappy?”

“There are, no doubt, different degrees of unhappiness,” returned Miss Saville; “yet I can hardly conceive any position in life so free from cares, as to be pronounced positively happy; but I know my ideas on this subject are peculiar, and I am by no means desirous of making a convert of you, Mr. Fairlegh; the world will do that soon enough, I fear,” she added with a sigh.

“I cannot believe it,” replied I warmly. “True, at times we must all feel sorrow; it is one of the conditions of our mortal lot, and we must bear it with what resignation we may, knowing that, if we but make a fitting use of it, it is certain to work for our highest good; but if you would have me look upon this world as a vale of tears, forgetting all its glorious opportunities for raising our fallen nature to something so bright and noble, as to be even here but little lower than the angels, you must pardon me if I never can agree with you.”

There was a moment's pause, when my companion resumed.

“You talk of opportunities of doing good, as being likely to increase our stock of happiness; and, no doubt, you are right; but imagine a situation, in which you are unable to take advantage of these opportunities when they arise—in which you are not a free agent, your will fettered and controlled on every point, so that you are alike powerless to perform the good that you desire, and to avoid the evil you both hate and fear—could you be happy in such a situation, think you?”

“You describe a case which is, or ought to be, impossible,” replied I; “when I say ought to be, I mean that in these days, I hope and believe, it is impossible for any one to be forced to do wrong, unless, from a natural weakness and facility of disposition, and from a want of moral courage, their resistance is so feeble, that those who seek to compel them to evil are induced to redouble their efforts, when a little firmness and decision clearly shown, and steadily adhered to, would have produced a very different result.”

“Oh that I could think so!” exclaimed Miss Saville ardently: she paused for a minute, as if in thought, and then resumed in a low mournful voice, “But you do not know—you cannot tell; besides, it is useless to struggle against destiny: there are people fated from childhood to grief and misfortune—alone in this cold world”—she paused, then continued abruptly, “you have a sister?”

“Yes,” replied I; “I have as good a little sister as ever man was fortunate enough to possess—how glad I should be to introduce her to you!”

“And you love each other?”

“Indeed we do, truly and sincerely.”

“And you are a man, one of the lords of the creation,” she continued, with a slight degree of sarcasm in her tone. “Well, Mr. Fairlegh, I can believe that you may be happy sometimes.”

“And what ami to conjecture about you?” inquired I, fixing my eyes upon her expressive features.

“What you please,” returned she, turning away with a very becoming blush—“or rather,” she added, “do not waste your time in forming any conjectures whatever on such an uninteresting subject.”

“I am more easily interested than you imagine,” replied I, with a smile; “besides, you know I am fond of studying character.”

“The riddle is not worth reading,” answered Miss Saville.

“Nevertheless, I shall not be contented till I have found it out; I shall guess it before long, depend upon it,” returned I.

An incredulous shake of the head was her only reply, and we continued conversing on indifferent subjects till we reached Elm Lodge.