THE WIDOW BARNABY.

DIFFICULTIES ATTENDING A YOUNG LADY'S APPEARANCE AT A BALL.—A WET SUNDAY.—DIFFERENCE OF TASTE.

Though it was two minutes and a half past the time named for dinner when Agnes made her appearance, she found her aunt's temper very slightly acerbated by the delay, for the delightful recollections of her morning expedition still endured, and she was more inclined to boast than to scold.

"Well, Agnes, I hope at last I have some news that will please you," she said. "What think you of my having subscribed for us both for six weeks?"

"Subscribed for what, aunt? ... to the library?"

"Yes; I have subscribed there, too, for a month ... and we must go every day, rain or shine, to make it answer. But I have done a good deal more than that for you, my dear; I have subscribed to the balls entirely for your sake, Agnes: and whatever becomes of you in future life, I trust you will never forget all I have done for you now."

"But I am afraid, aunt, it will cost you a great deal of money to take me with you to the balls; and as I have never been yet, I cannot know anything about it, you know; and I do assure you that I shall not at all mind being left at home."

"And a pretty story that would make, wouldn't it?... I tell you, child, I have paid the money already ... and here are the cutlets; so sit down, and be thankful for all my kindness to you.... Is my beer come, Jerningham?"

Agnes sat down, and began eating her cutlet; but it was thoughtfully, for there were cares that rested heavily upon her heart; and though they were certainly of a minor species, she must be forgiven if at sixteen and a half they were sufficient to perplex her sorely. She had neither shoes nor gloves fit to appear at a ball. She dared not ask for them, she dared not go without them, and she dared not refuse to go at all.

"This certainly is the most beautiful place I ever saw in my life!" said the widow, while renewing her attack upon the dish of cutlets; "such shops!... such a milliner! and, as for the library, its perfectly like going into public! What an advantage it is every morning of one's life to be able to go to such a place as that! Elizabeth Peters seemed to know everybody; and I heard them talking of people of the highest fashion, as some of those we are sure to meet at the ball. What an immense advantage it is for you, Agnes, to be introduced in such a manner at such a place as this!"

"It is indeed a most beautiful place, aunt, and the Peterses are most kind and charming people."

"Then for once in your life, child, you are pleased!... that's a comfort.... And I have got something to shew you, Agnes, such a scarf!... real French blonde: ... its monstrous expensive, I'm afraid; but everybody says that the respectability of a girl depends entirely upon the style of her chaperon. I'm sure I would no more let my poor dear sister's child go out with me, if I was shabbily dressed, than I would fly. I wonder Mrs. Duval does not send home my things; but perhaps she waits for me to send my turban. She's going to put my feathers in for me, Agnes,—quite a favour I assure you; ... but she was so respectful in her manner to Elizabeth Peters. I am sure, if I had had any notion what sort of people they were, I should have made Barnaby leave his business to Mr. Dobbs for a little while, that he might have brought me to see them long ago."

"It is indeed a pleasure to meet with such friends," said Agnes; "and perhaps..."

"Perhaps what, child?"

"If either of the three girls stay away from the ball, perhaps, aunt, you would be so kind as to let me stay away too, and we should pass the evening so delightfully together."

"God give me patience, Agnes, for I'm sure you are enough to drive one wild. Here have I been subscribing to the balls, and actually paying down ready money beforehand for your tickets; and now, ungrateful creature that you are, you tell me you won't go!... I only wish the Peterses could hear you, and then they'd know what you are."

"My only objection to going to the ball, aunt," said Agnes with desperate courage, "is, the fear that you would be obliged to get gloves and shoes for me."

"Gloves and shoes!... why, that's just the advantage of mourning. You'll have my black silk stockings, you know, all except a pair or two of the best,—and with black stockings I don't suppose you would choose to put on white shoes. That would be rather too much in the magpie style, I suppose, wouldn't it?... And for gloves, I don't see how, in such very deep mourning, you would wear anything but black gloves too; and there are two pair of mine that you may have. I could lend you an old pair of my black satin shoes too, only your feet and your hands are so frightfully out of proportion to your height.... I was always reckoned to be most perfectly in proportion, every part of my figure; but your hands and feet are absolutely ridiculous from their smallness: you take after your father in that, and a great misfortune it is, for it will prevent your ever profiting by my shoes or my gloves either, unless you are clever enough to take them in,—and that I don't believe you are—not fingers and all...."

"May I wear long sleeves then, aunt?" said Agnes with considerable animation, from having suddenly conceived a project, by means of which she thought she might render herself and her sables presentable.

"Because you have got no long gloves, I suppose? Why yes, child, I see no objection, in such very deep mourning as yours. It is a strange whim you have taken, Agnes; but it is certainly very convenient."

"And will you give me leave, aunt, to use all the black you have been so kind as to give me?"

"Use it?... use all of it?... Yes; I don't want to have any of it again: the great desire of my life is to be liberal and generous to you in all ways, Agnes. But I don't know what you mean about using it all,—you can't mean all the things at once?"

"No, aunt," replied Agnes, laughing, "I don't mean that; but if I may use the crape that covers nearly the whole of your best gown, I think I could make my own frock look very well, for I would make it the same as one I saw last year at Empton. May I?"

"Yes, if you will, child; but to say the truth, I have no great faith in your mantua-making talents. However, I am glad to see that you have got such a notion in your head; and if it turns out well, I may set you to work for me perhaps one of these days. I have a great deal of taste in that way; but with my fortune it would be ridiculous if I did much beside ornamental work.... There.... Take away, Jerningham, and bring the two cheesecakes.... Agnes, do you wish for one?"

"No, thank you, aunt."

"What an odd girl you are!... You never seem to care about what you eat.... I must say that I am a little more dainty, and know what is nice, and like it too. But poor dear Barnaby spoilt me in that way; and if ever you should be lucky enough to be the idol of a husband, as I was, you will learn to like nice eating too, Agnes ... for it is a thing that grows upon one, I believe. But I dare say at the out-of-the-way place your aunt Betsy put you to, there was no great chance of your being over-indulged that way.... That will do, Jerningham, give me that drop of beer; and now eat up your own dinner as fast as you can, and ask little Kitty to shew you the way to Mrs. Duval's, the milliner; and take with you, very carefully mind, the hat-box that you will find ready tied up on my bed, and bring back with you my new scarf and gloves.... I long to shew you my scarf, Agnes.... You shall not be ashamed of your chaperon,—that's a point I'm resolved upon."

It was Saturday night, and the important ball was to be on the following Tuesday; so Agnes, as soon as the dinner was ended, hastened to set about her work, a general idea of which she had very clearly in her little head, but felt some misgivings about her skill in the detail.

Hardly, however, had she brought forth "her needle and her shears," when her aunt exclaimed,—

"Good gracious, child!... you are not going to set to work now?... Why, it is the pleasantest part of the day, and I mean to take you out to walk with me under the windows where we saw all the smart people last night.—Just look out, and you will see they are beginning to come already. Put on your things, my dear; and put your bonnet a little back, and try to look as smart as you can. You are certainly very pretty, but you are a terrible dowdy in your way of putting on your things. You have nothing jaunty and taking about you, as I used to have at your age, Agnes; and I'm sure I don't know what to do to improve you.... I suspect that your aunt will get more eyes upon her now than you will with all your youth,—and that's a shame.... But I always was famous for putting on my things well."

Agnes retired to her little room; but her quiet bonnet was put on much as usual when she came out from it; and Mrs. Barnaby might have been discouraged at seeing the very undashing appearance of her companion, had she not been conscious that the manner in which she had repaired her own charms, and the general style of her dress and person, were such as might well atone for it.

Nor was she disappointed as to the degree of attention she expected to draw; not a party passed them without giving her a decided stare, and many indulged their curiosity by a very pertinacious look over the shoulder after them.

This was very delightful, but it was not all: ere they had taken half a dozen turns, the widely-roaming eyes of Mrs. Barnaby descried two additional gentlemen, decidedly the most distinguished-looking personages she had seen, approaching from the further end of the walk.

"That tall one is the man we watched last night, Agnes: I should know him amongst a thousand."

Agnes looked up, and felt equally convinced of the fact.

The two gentlemen approached; and Mrs. Barnaby herself could not have wished for a look of more marked examination than the tall individual bestowed upon her as he went by: but satisfactory as this was, and greatly as it occupied her attention, she was aware also that his companion looked with equal attention at Agnes.

"For goodness' sake, Agnes, throw back that abominable veil; it is getting quite dark already, and I'm sure you cannot see."

"I can see very well, thank you, aunt," replied Agnes.

"Fool!..." muttered Mrs. Barnaby; but she would not spoil her features by a frown, and continued to enjoy for three turns more the repeated gaze of the tall gentleman.

The following day being Sunday was one of great importance to strangers about to be initiated into the society of the place; and Mrs. Barnaby had fondly flattered herself that Mrs. Peters, or at least the young ladies, would upon such an occasion have extended their patronage, both to help them to a seat, and to tell them "who was who." But in this she was disappointed: in fact, a compact had been entered into between Mrs. Peters and her son and daughters, by which it was agreed that, on condition of her permitting them to join her party at the balls, she was always to be allowed to go to church in peace. This was so reasonable that even the petted Mary submitted to it without a murmur; and the consequence was that Mrs. Barnaby found herself left to her own devices as to the manner in which she should make the most of the Sabbath-day.

Fortunately for the tranquillity of Mrs. Peters, the landlady of the lodgings, on being questioned, gave it as her opinion that the chapel at the Hot Wells, which was within a very pleasant walk, would be more likely to offer accommodation to strangers than the parish church, that being always crowded by the resident families; so to the chapel at the Hot Wells Mrs. Barnaby resolved to go, and the tea-urn was ordered half an hour earlier than usual, that time enough might be allowed to "get ready."

"Now do make the best of yourself, Agnes, to-day, will you? I am sure those men are not Bristol people.... So different they looked—didn't they?—from all the rest. Of course, you will put on your best crape bonnet, and one of my nicest broad-hemmed white crape collars ... there is one I have quite clean ... I have no doubt in the world we shall see them."

Having finished her breakfast, and reiterated these orders, Mrs. Barnaby turned her attention to her own toilet, and a most elaborate one it was, taking so long a time as to leave scarcely sufficient for the walk; but proving at length so perfectly satisfactory as to make her indifferent to that, or almost any other contretems.

On this occasion she came forth in a new dress of light grey gros-de-Naples, with a gay bonnet of paille de riz, decorated with poppy blossoms both within and without, a "lady-like" profusion of her own embroidery on cuffs, collar, and pocket-handkerchief, her well-oiled ringlets half hiding her large, coarse, handsome face, her eyes set off by a suffusion of carmine, and her whole person redolent of musk.

This was the figure beside which Agnes was doomed to make her first appearance at the crowded chapel of the Hot Wells. Had she thought about herself, the contrast its expansive splendour offered to her own slight figure, her delicate fair face seen but by stealth through her thick veil, and the sad decorum of her sable robe, might have struck her as being favourable; instead of that, however, it was another contrast that occurred to her; for, as she looked at Mrs. Barnaby, she suddenly recollected the general look and air of her aunt Compton, just at the moment when the widow attacked her so violently on the meanness of her apparel during their terrible encounter at the village school, and she could not quite restrain a sigh as she thought how greatly she should have preferred entering a crowded and fashionable chapel with her.

But no sighing could effect the change, and they set forth together, as strangely a matched pair in appearance as can well be imagined. They entered the crowded building just as the Psalms concluded, and were stared at and scrutinised with quite as much attention as was consistent with the solemnity of the place: moreover, seats were after some time offered to them, and there was no reason in the world to believe that they were in any way overlooked. Nevertheless Mrs. Barnaby was disappointed. Neither the tall gentleman nor his companion were there; nor did Major Allen, or any one like him, appear to reward her labour and her skill.

Long and wearisome did the steep up-hill walk back to her lodgings appear after this unpropitious act of devotion, and sadly passed the remainder of the day, for it rained hard ... no strollers, not even an idle endimanché, came to awaken the musical echo she loved to listen to from the pavement under the windows. In short, it was a day of existence lost, save that she found out one or two new defects in Agnes, and ended at last by very nearly convincing herself that it was in some way or other her fault that it rained.

But happily nothing lasts for ever in this world, and Agnes found herself quietly in bed at last.

The next morning rose bright in sunshine, and the widow rose too, and "blessed the useful light," which she determined should see her exactly at the fashionable hour take her way to the library, and the pastry-cook's, or wherever else she was most likely to be seen; but, fortunately for the refacimento upon which Agnes desired to employ herself, this fashionable hour was not early, and her sable draperies had made great progress before her aunt gave notice that she must get ready to go out with her. To have a voice upon any question of this kind had fortunately never yet occurred to Agnes as a thing possible, and once more, like a Bella Donna beside a Hollyhock, she appeared, with all the effect of the strongest contrast, in the gayest part of Clifton.

This day seemed sent by fate to make up for the misfortunes of the last. On entering the library, Mrs. Barnaby immediately placed herself before the authographic volume in which she took such particular interest, and hardly had she done so, when the tall and the short gentlemen entered the shop. Again it was decidedly evident that the tall one fixed his eyes on the widow, and the shorter one on her companion. The widow's heart beat. Never had she forgotten the evident admiration her own face and manner produced on her fellow traveller from Silverton, or the chilling effect that followed the display of the calm features of her delicate niece. She knew that Agnes was younger, and perhaps even handsomer, than herself; but this only tended to confirm her conviction that an animated expression of countenance, and great vivacity of manner, would do more towards turning a young man's head than all the mere beauty in the world.

What would she have given at that moment for some one with whom she might have conversed with laughing gaiety ... to whom she might have displayed her large white teeth ... and on whom she might have turned the flashings of her lustrous eyes!

It was in vain to look to Agnes at such a moment as this, for she well knew that nothing she could utter would elicit any better excuse for laughter than might be found in "Yes, aunt," or "No, aunt." So nothing was to be done but to raise a glass recently purchased to her eye, in order to recognize the unknown passers-by; but in doing this she contrived to make "le petit doigt" show off her rings, and now and then cast such a glance at the strangers as none but a Mrs. Barnaby can give.

After this dumb show had lasted for some minutes, the two gentlemen each threw down the newspaper they had affected to read, and departed. Mrs. Barnaby's interest in the subscription-book departed likewise; and after looking at the backs of one or two volumes that lay scattered about the counter, she, too, left the shop, and proceeded with a dignified and leisurely step along the pavement. The next moment was one of the happiest of her life, for on turning her head to reconnoitre a richly-trimmed mantilla that had passed her, she perceived the same pair of gentlemen at the distance of two paces behind them.

This indeed was an adventure, and to the widow's unspeakable delight it was made more piquant still by what followed. Near the end of the street was the well-frequented shop of a fashionable pastry-cook,—an establishment, by the way, which Mrs. Barnaby had not yet lived long enough to pass with indifference, for the two-fold reason, that it ever recalled the dear rencontres of her youth, when the disbursement of one penny was sure to secure a whole half hour of regimental flirting, and also because her genuine love for cakes and tarts was unextinguishable. There was now again a double reason for entering this inviting museum; for, in the first place, it would prevent the necessity of turning round as soon as they had walked up the street, in order to walk down it again, thereby proving that they had no engagements at all; and, secondly, it would give the two uncommonly handsome men an opportunity of following them in, if they liked it.

And it so happened that they did like it. Happy Mrs. Barnaby!... No sooner had she seated herself beside the counter, with a plate of queen cakes and Bath buns beside her, than the light from the door ceased to pour its unbroken splendour upon her elegant dress, and on looking up, her eye again met the gaze first of the one, and then of the other stranger, as they entered the shop together.

Agnes was standing behind her, with her face rather unmeaningly turned towards the counter, for when a plate with various specimens of pastry delicacies was offered to her by one of the shop-women, she declined to take anything by a silent bow.

The two gentlemen passed her, and established themselves at a little table just beyond, desiring that ices might be brought to them.

"You have ices, have you?" said Mrs. Barnaby, delighted at an opportunity of speaking; ... "bring me one, if you please." And then, trusting to her niece's well known discretion, she turned her chair, so as to front both Agnes and the two gentlemen, and said with great kindness of accent ... "Agnes, love!... will you have an ice?"

"No, thank you, aunt," ... the anticipated reply, followed.

"Then sit down, dearest, will you?... while I take mine."

The younger of the two gentlemen instantly sprang from his chair, and presented it to her. Agnes bowed civilly, but passed on to a bench which flanked the narrow shop on the other side; but Mrs. Barnaby smiled upon him most graciously, and said, bowing low as she sat,—

"Thank you, sir, very much ... you are extremely obliging."

The young man bowed again, reseated himself, and finished his ice in silence, when his companion having done the same, each laid a sixpence on the counter, and walked off.

"Who are those gentlemen, pray?... do you know their names?" said Mrs. Barnaby eagerly to the shop-girl.

"The tall gentleman is Colonel Hubert, ma'am; and the other, young Mr. Stephenson."

"Stephenson," ... musingly repeated the widow,—"Stephenson and Hubert?... I am sure I have heard the names before."

"Sir Edward Stephenson was married on Saturday to Colonel Hubert's sister, ma'am," said the girl, "and it is most likely that you heard of it."

"Oh, to be sure I did!... I remember now all about it.... They said he was the handsomest man in the world—Colonel Hubert I mean ... and so he certainly is ... handsomer certainly than even Major Allen: don't you think so, Agnes?"

"I don't know Major Allen, aunt."

"Not know Major Allen, child?... Oh! I remember ... no more you do, my dear ... come, get up; I have done.... The young man, Agnes," she said, turning to her niece as they left the shop, "seemed, I thought, a good deal struck by you. I wish to goodness, child, you would not always keep that thick veil over your face so.... It is a very handsome veil I know, and certainly makes your mourning look very elegant; but it is only in some particular lights that one can see your face under it at all."

"I don't think that signifies much, aunt, and it makes me feel so much more comfortable."

"Comfortable!... very well, child, poke along, and be comfortable your own way ... but you certainly have a little spice of the mule in you."

The widow was perhaps rather disappointed at seeing no more of the two strangers; they had turned off just beyond the pastry-cook's shop, and were no longer visible; but, while she follows in gentle musings her walk home, we will pursue the two gentlemen who had so captivated her attention.

The only resemblance between them was in the decided air of bon ton that distinguished both; in every other respect they were perfectly dissimilar. Mr. Stephenson, the shorter and younger of the two, had by far the more regular set of features, and was indeed remarkably handsome. Colonel Hubert, his companion, appeared to be at least ten years his senior, and looked bronzed by the effect of various climates. He had perhaps no peculiar beauty of feature except his fine teeth, and the noble expression of his forehead, from which, however, the hair had already somewhat retired, though it still clustered in close brown curls round his well-turned head. But his form and stature were magnificent, and his general appearance so completely that of a soldier and a gentleman, that it was impossible, let him appear where he would, that he should pass unnoticed ... which perhaps to the gentle-minded may be considered as some excuse for Mrs. Barnaby's enthusiastic admiration.

"For Heaven's sake, Hubert!" said the junior to the senior, as they paced onwards, "do give me leave to know a pretty girl when I see one.... In my life I never beheld so beautiful a creature!... Her form, her feet, her movement,—and what a voice!"

"Assuredly," said Colonel Hubert in reply to this tirade, "the sweet variety of tone, and the charming change of her ever musical cadences, must naturally excite your admiration. 'No, thank you, aunt,' ... it was inimitable! You are quite right, Frederick; such words could not be listened to with indifference."

"You are an odious, carping, old, fusty, musty bachelor, and I hate you with all my heart and soul!" exclaimed the young man. "Upon my honour, Hubert, I shudder to think that some ten or a dozen years hence I may be as hard, cold, and insensible as you are now.... Tell me honestly, can you at all recollect what your feelings were at two-and-twenty on seeing such a being as that sable angel from whom you have just dragged me?"

"Perhaps not exactly; and besides, black angels were never the objects of my idolatry. But don't stamp your foot at me, and I will answer you seriously. I do not think that from the blissful time when I was sixteen, up to my present solemn five-and-thirty, I could ever have been tempted to look a second time at any miss under the chaperonship of such a dame as that feather and furbelow lady."

"Then why, in the name of common sense, did you gaze so earnestly at the furbelow lady herself?"

"To answer that truly, Frederick, would involve the confession of a peculiar family weakness."

"A family weakness?... Pray, be confidential; I will promise to be discreet; and, indeed, as my brother has just made, as the newspapers say, a 'lovely bride' of your sister, I have some right to a participation in the family secrets. Come, disclose!... What family reason have you for choosing to gaze upon a great vulgar woman, verging towards forty, and refusing to look at a young creature, as beautiful as a houri, who happens to be in her company?"

"I suspect it is because I am near of kin to my mother's sister.... Did you never hear of the peculiarity that attaches to my respected aunt, Lady Elizabeth Norris? She scruples not to avow that she prefers the society of people who amuse her by their absurdities to every other."

"Oh yes!... I have heard all that from Edward, who has, I can tell you, been occasionally somewhat horrified at what the queer old lady calls her soirées antíthèstiques. But you don't mean to tell me, Hubert, that you ever take the fancy of surrounding yourself with all the greatest quizzes you can find in compliment to your old aunt?"

"Why, no.... I do not go so far as that yet, and perhaps I sometimes wish that she did not either, for occasionally she carries the whim rather too far; yet I believe truly that I am more likely to gaze with attention at a particularly ridiculous-looking woman than at any young nymph under her protection ... or possessing the awful privilege of calling her AUNT!"

"A young nymph!... what a hateful phrase! Elegant, delicate creature!... I swear to you, Colonel Hubert, that you have lowered yourself very materially in my estimation by your want of tact in not immediately perceiving that, although a nepotine connexion unhappily exists between them, by marriage probably, or by the half blood, there must still be something very peculiar in the circumstances which have brought so incongruous a pair together."

"Well, Frederick, you may be right ... and perhaps, my friend, my eyes begin to fail me; for, to tell you the truth, your adorable's crape veil was too thick for me to see anything through it."

"To be sure it was!" cried Stephenson, quite delighted at the amende; "I thought it was impossible you could underrate such a face as that."

"It is a great blessing to have young eyes," rejoined the Colonel, relapsing into his bantering tone.

"What!... At it again, thou crusty old Mars?... Then I leave you."

"Au revoir, my Corydon!..." and so they parted.

THE BALL.

The evening of the ball, so much dreaded by the niece, and so much longed for by the aunt, arrived at last; and by a chance not over common in the affairs of mortals, while the hopes of the one lady were more than realised, the fears of the other were proved to be altogether groundless. Many favourable accidents, indeed, concurred to lessen the difficulties anticipated by Agnes. In the first place, her almost funereal robes (for which, if the truth be spoken, it must be avowed she had not the slightest partiality,) assumed an appearance, under her tasteful fancy, which surprised even herself; for though, when she set about it, she had a sort of beau ideal of a black crape robe floating in her imagination, her hopes of giving it form and substance by her own ingenuity were not very sanguine. Mrs. Barnaby, either from the depth of her sorrow, or the height of her elegance, had commanded, when she ordered her widow's mourning, that one dress should touch the heart of every beholder by having a basement of sable crape one yard in breadth around it. This doleful dress was costly, and had been rarely worn at Silverton, that it might come forth in greater splendour at Exeter. But at Exeter, as we have seen, the widow's feelings so completely overpowered her, that she could not wear it at all; and thus it came under the fingers of Agnes in very respectable condition. Of these circumambulatory ells of crape, the young artificer contrived to fabricate a dress that was anything but unbecoming. The enormous crape gigots (for those were the days of gigots), which made part of her black treasure, hung from her delicate fair arms like transparent clouds upon the silvery brightness of the moon ... so, at least, would Frederick Stephenson have described it ... while the simple corsage, drawn, à la vierge, rather higher than fashion demanded round her beautiful bust, gave a delicate and sober dignity to her appearance, that even those who would have deemed it "a pity to be so covered up" themselves, could not but allow was exceedingly becoming.

As soon as her labour was ended, she prudently made an experiment of its effect; and then, in "trembling hope" of her aunt's approval, made her appearance before her. Her success here perfectly astonished her.

"Mercy on me, child!—What an elegant dress!—Where on earth did you get it from?"

"From your gown, aunt."

"Oh, to be sure!—I understand. It is not many people that would give away such a dress as that, Agnes—perfectly new, and so extremely elegant. I hope it won't turn your brain, my dear, and that you will never forget who gave it to you. Certainly I never thought you so handsome before; and if you will but study my manner a little, and smile, and show your fine teeth, I do really think I may be able to get a husband for you, which would certainly be more creditable than going out as a governess.... So you can work, Agnes, I see ... and a good thing too, considering your poverty. It does not look amiss upon the whole, I must say; though I don't see any reason for your covering yourself up so; I am sure your neck is white enough to be seen, and it would be odd if it wasn't, considering who your mother was; for both she and I were noted, far and near, for that beauty; but I can't say I ever hid myself up in that way.... And what shoes, child, have you got to wear with it?"

"These, aunt," said Agnes, putting out her little foot incased in leather, with a sole of very respectable thickness.

"Well, upon my word, that's a pity ... it spoils all ... and I don't think you could dance in them if you did get a partner.... What would you say, Agnes, if I bought you a thin pair of prunella pumps on purpose?"

"I should be very much obliged to you, aunt."

"Well, then, for once I must be extravagant, I believe; so, get on your other gown, child, as quick as you can, and your bonnet and shawl, and let us go to the shop round the corner. I did not mean to stir out to-day ... there is wind enough to make one's eyes perfectly blood-shot.... However, the shop's close by.... Only, if you do marry well, I hope you will never forget what you owe me."

Agnes had been too hard at work to take any long walk, though invited to do it; but her friend Mary called upon her both Monday and Tuesday; and having found her way into the closet, seemed to think, as she pulled over Agnes's books, and chatted with her concerning their contents, that they might often enjoy themselves tête-à-tête there.

"Shall you like it, Agnes?" she added, after sketching such a scheme to her.

"I think, Mary, you could make me like anything ... but can I really make you like sitting in this cupboard, instead of your own elegant drawing-room?"

"If you will sit with me here, my new friend," answered Miss Peters with an air of great sincerity.

"Then must I not be wicked if I ever think myself unhappy again ... at least, as long as we stay at Clifton."

"Dear girl!... you should not be so if I could help it.... But I must go ... nine o'clock this evening, remember, and wait for us in the outer room, if you do not find us already there."

These instructions Agnes repeated to her aunt; but that lady's ardent temper induced her to order a fly to be at her door at half-past eight precisely; and when it arrived, she was for at least the fourth time putting the last finishing touch to her blonde, and her feathers, and her ringlets, and her rouge, and therefore it took her not more than five minutes for a last general survey, before she declared herself "ready!" and Jerningham received orders to precede her down the stairs with a candle.

If the former descriptions of the widow's appearance have not been wholly in vain, the reader will easily conceive the increased splendour of her charms when elaborately attired for a ball, without my entering into any minutiæ concerning them. Suffice it to say, that if the corsage of the delicate Agnes might have been deemed by some too high, that of Mrs. Barnaby might have been thought by others too low; and that, taken all together, she looked exceedingly like one of the supplementary dames brought forth to do honour to the banquet scene in Macbeth.

Arriving half an hour before the time appointed, they, of course, did not find the Peters family; nor did this latter party make their appearance before the patience of Mrs. Barnaby had given way, and she had insisted, much to the vexation of Agnes, upon going on to the ball-room without them.

There the atmosphere was already in some degree congenial to her. The lustres were blazing, the orchestra tuning, and a few individuals, as impatient as herself, walking up and down the room, and appearing greatly delighted at having something new to stare at.

This parade was beginning to realize all the worst fears of Agnes, (for the room was filling fast, and Mrs. Barnaby would not hear of sitting down,) when she descried Mrs. Peters, her son, her three daughters, and two other gentlemen, enter the room.

Mrs. Barnaby saw them too, and instantly began to stride towards them; but timidity now made Agnes bold, and she held back, still courageously retaining her aunt's arm, and exclaiming eagerly,—

"Oh, let them come to us, aunt!"

"Nonsense, child!... Don't hold me so, Agnes; it will be exceedingly rude if we do not join them immediately, according to our engagement."

The pain of violently seizing upon Mrs. Peters was, however, spared her by the watchful kindness of Mary, who caught sight of them immediately, and, together with Elizabeth, hastened forward to meet them.

Miss Peters gave a glance of approbation and pleasure at the appearance of Agnes, who did not look the less beautiful, perhaps, from the deep blush that dyed her cheeks as she marked the expression of Mrs. Peters' countenance, as she approached with her eyes fixed upon her aunt. That lady, however, let her have felt what she might at sight of her remarkable-looking sister-in-law, very honourably performed her part of the compact entered into with her daughters, smiling very graciously in return for her affectionate relative's raptures at seeing her, and shewing no symptom of anything she felt on the occasion, excepting immediately retiring to the remotest corner of the room, where she very nearly hid herself behind a pillar.

Mrs. Barnaby of course followed her, with the young ladies, to the seat she had chosen; but her active genius was instantly set to work to discover how she might escape from it, for the feelings produced by such an eclipse were perfectly intolerable.

"I must pretend that I see some person whom I know," thought she, "and so make one of the girls walk across the room with me;" but at the instant she was about to put this project into execution, James Peters came up to the party, and very civilly addressed her. This was something, for the young man was handsome and well-dressed; but better still was what happened next, for she immediately felt at once that she was about to become the heroine of an adventure. Major Allen, whose appearance altogether, including moustaches, favouris, collier grec, embroidered waistcoat, and all, was very nearly as remarkable as her own, entered the room, looked round it, fixed his eyes upon her spangled turban, and very decisively turned off from the throng in order to pay his compliments to the Peters' party, distinguishing her by a bow that spake the profoundest admiration and respect.

Elizabeth was the last of the row, her mother (with Mrs. Barnaby next her) being at the other end of it; and close to Elizabeth the dashing Major placed himself, immediately entering into a whispered conversation with her, which obliged her to turn herself round from the rest, in such a manner that not even Lucy, who came next in order, could overhear much of what passed.... Nevertheless, the widow felt as certain as if she could have followed every word of it, that this earnest conversation was about her.

Nor was she mistaken, for thus it ran:

"Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.... You are just arrived, I presume.... An excellent ball, is it not?... I told you it would be.... What an exceedingly fine woman your aunt is, Miss Peters!... It is your aunt, I think?"

"Yes ... our aunt, certainly ... the widow of my mother's brother, Major Allen."

"Ay.... I understood she was your aunt.... She is a woman of large fortune, I hear?"

"Yes, very large fortune."

"But she is in lodgings, is she not?... She does not seem to have taken the whole house."

"Oh, no ... only quite small lodgings: but she does not spend the third of her income, nor near it."

"Really?... then, I suppose, handsome as she is, that she is a little in the skin-flint line, eh?..." and here the Major shewed his horse-like teeth by a laugh.

"Not that at all, I assure you," replied the young lady, amiably anxious to exonerate her aunt from so vile an aspersion; "indeed, I should say quite the contrary; for she has very generous and noble ideas about money, and the use a widow ought to make of a fortune left by her husband, in case she does not happen to marry again. I am sure I hope people won't be so ill-natured as to say she is stingy because she does not choose to spend all her income;—it will be abominable if they do, because her motives are so very noble."

"I am sure she has a most charming advocate in you.... And what, then, may I ask ... for what is noble should never be concealed ... what can be the reason of economy so unnecessary?"

"She does not think it is unnecessary, Major Allen; for she has an orphan niece who is left quite dependent upon her, and what she is saving will be for her."

"Amiable indeed!... Then her property is only income, I presume? Really that is a pity, considering how remarkably well such a disposition would employ the capital."

"Oh! no, that is not so neither; my uncle Barnaby left everything entirely at her own disposal; only she thinks," ... and here the silly and loquacious Elizabeth stopped short, for the idea suddenly occurred to her that it was not right to talk so much of her aunt's concerns to so slight an acquaintance as Major Allen; and not exactly knowing how to end her sentence, she permitted a sudden thought to strike her, and exclaimed, "I wonder when they will begin dancing?"

But the Major had heard enough.

He resumed the conversation, however, but very discreetly, by saying, "That young lady in mourning is her niece, I suppose? and a beautiful creature she is.... But how comes she to be in such deep mourning, when that of her aunt is so slight?"

Had the simple Elizabeth understood the principle of vicarial mourning upon which these habiliments had been transferred from the widow to her niece, she would doubtless, from the talkative frankness of her nature, have disclosed it; but as her confidential conversation with her new relative had left her ignorant of this, she answered, with rather a confused recollection of Mrs. Barnaby's explanation, "I believe it is because she wears it out of romantic sorrow for her own papa, though he has been dead for years and years."

"Will you ask your brother, Miss Peters, to introduce me to Mrs. Barnaby?"

"Certainly, Major Allen, if you wish it.... James," added the young lady, stretching out her fan to draw his attention from Agnes, with whom he was talking, "James, step here ... Major Allen wishes you to introduce him to Mrs. Barnaby."

The Major rose at the moment, and strengthened the request by adding, "Will you do me that honour, Mr. Peters?"

The young man bowed slightly, and without answering moved to the front of the happy widow, followed by the obsequious Major, and said, "Major Allen wishes to be introduced to you, Mrs. Barnaby.... Major Allen, Mrs. Barnaby."

It was not without an effort that this consummation of her dearest hopes was received with some tolerable appearance of external composure by the lady; but she felt that the moment was an important one, and called up all her energy to support her under it. Perhaps she blushed, but that, for obvious reasons, was not perceptible; but she cast down her eyes upon her fan, and then raised them again to the face of the bending Major with a look that really said a great deal.

The established questions and answers in use on such occasions were going on with great zeal and animation on both sides, when a fresh source of gratification presented itself to the widow in the approach of Mr. Frederick Stephenson to Agnes, in a manner as flatteringly decided as that of the Major to herself; but, being quite a stranger to the Peters family, he was preceded by the master of the ceremonies, who whispered his name and family to Mrs. Peters, asking permission to present him to the young lady in mourning, who appeared to be of her party.

This was of course readily accorded; when the introduction took place, and was followed by a petition from the young man for the honour of dancing with her.

Agnes looked a vast deal more beautiful than he had ever dared to believe possible through her veil as she answered, "I am engaged."

"Then the next?" said Mr. Stephenson eagerly.

Agnes bowed her blushing assent, and the young man continued to stand before her, going through pretty nearly the same process as the Major.

This lasted till the quadrilles began to form, when James Peters claimed her hand for the dance.

Two of the Miss Peters soon followed, when Major Allen said, "As the young ladies are forsaking you, madam, may you not be induced to make a party at whist?"

"I should have no objection whatever, Major," replied Mrs. Barnaby, "provided there was room at a table where they did not play high."

"Of course, if I have the honour of making a table for you, my dear madam, the stakes will be of your own naming.... Will you permit me to go and see what can be done?"

"You are excessively kind.... I shall be greatly obliged."

The active Mars departed instantly, with a step, if not as light, at least as zealous in its speed, as that of Mercury when bent upon one of his most roguish errands, and in a wonderfully short space of time he returned with the intelligence that a table was waiting for her. He then presented his arm, which she took with condescending dignity, and led her off.