her intention of going. It took place on the Thursday after that evening on which Mrs. E

he Rev. Cyrus Bodkin, D.D., liked his rubber; so did Robert Smith, Esq., M.R.C.S., and Mr. Dockett, the attor

ed courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. The garden at the back ran sloping down to a broad green meadow, which in turn was bounded by the

looked poisonous-as indeed it was, exhaling ague and rheumatism from its plashy surface-and a white brooding mist trailed itself, morning and evening, along t

had many visitors, who came and sat around her couch, or beside the lounging-chair, on which, on her good days, she reclined. She was better acquainted with the news of Whitford than most of the people who could use their limbs to go abroad and see what was passing. She was interested in the progress of the boys at the grammar-school, and knew the names, and a good deal about the characters, of every one of them. She would chat, and laugh, and joke by the hour with

s its immediate neighbourhood too hot for the comfort of most people. But Minnie is apt to be chilly, and loves the heat. Some delicate ferns and hothouse plants adorn a stand between the windows. They are rather a rare luxury in Whitford; but Minnie loves flowers, and always has some choice ones about her. A still rarer luxury hangs on the wall opposite to her sofa, in the shape of a very fine copy-on a reduced scale-of Raphael's Madonna di San Sisto. Minnie had fallen in l

sometimes seen in flesh and blood, and, strange to say, do by no means excite the same enthusiasm in ordinary beholders, who, for the most part, like the picturesque in a picture and

and brushed away from a high, smooth, rounded forehead, in which shine a pair of bright brown eyes, under finely-arched eyebrows. But the beauty of the face lies in the perfection of its outlines: brow, cheeks, and chin are alike delicately moulded; her mouth-although the lips are too pale

burns and flickers, certainly, but it is but a dull sort of dead light after all. Now Minnie Bodkin's spirit-lamp, if the phrase may

er, sotto voce, a humorous imitation of the psalm-singing in old Max's parlour; and describing, with great relish,

one of her grande dame speeches, as if she were addressing my grandfather's Warwickshire tenantry forty years ago!

s such fires of straw will do, but a few weeks ago I heard that the little Wesleyan chapel was crowded to overflowing whenever he preached; and that once or twice, when he addresse

, whilst she was speaking. "Look here," he says, "here's the preacher!" And he holds out

at it with ra

ted. This is the common, conventional, long-hair

caricature. He had drawn a lank, hook-nosed man, with long, black ha

says Algy, contemplating his own w

r to a little melancholy fox, is presiding at a tea-table. Besides tea and coffee, it is furnished with substantial cakes of many various kinds. Whitford people, for the most pa

ttle rings of hair gummed down all over her forehead, and half-way down her plump cheeks; Mr. Smith, the surgeon, black-eyed, red-faced, and smiling; the Rev. Peter Warlock, curate of St. Chad's, a serious, ghoul-like young man, who rends great bits out

s not a hard man at heart, but nature has made him conceited, and habit has made him a tyrant. The boys kotoo to him in the school, and his wife bends submissively to his will at home. There is only one person in the world who habitually opposes and sets aside his assumption of infallibility, and that person-his daughter Minnie-he l

N.B. He has eaten three muffins unassisted; but they do not prosper with him. He has a hungry glare.) "Mrs. Dockett? No?" Mrs. Bodkin looks round, and

kin hates to hear any noise when he is at his rubber, so there are thick curtains before the door of communication betwe

e little drawing-room, with the door shut, and the curtains drawn. And although the doctor wears a frown on his bald forehead, and is more than

Smith play dummy. Algernon Errington hates cards, and-naturally-doesn't play. The Rev. Peter Warlock also hates cards, but is wanted t

ly think of going to Lon

n-I don't know why that shouldn't be rung out on Bow Bells. You see my name ha

ok, and took care of his kitten. I wonder

ving? They paint her as a woman!" cries

d this step? Have you any reasonable prospect of making

orthwith proceeds to lay his hopes and plans before her; that is to say, he talks a great deal with astonishing candour and fluency, and says wonderfully little. His mother is so anxious; the

sinking back among her cushi

tford, and has been spending the afternoon with the Misses McDougall. The latter young ladies never play whist. Little Ally Dockett sometimes takes a hand, if need be, and acquits herself not discreditably; but sixteen rushes in where two-and-thirty fears to tread. Rose and Viol

McDougall (of whose intelligence she has, truth to say, a disdainful estimate) are alive to the fact that she thinks them foo

one of your caricatures, you wicked thing?" cri

do," says Violet, with an air of ha

elessly. "Mr. Errington has been trying to give me an idea

oung Pawkins with his glass in his eye. "I hea

at the utmost stretch of his arm, solemnly put

"Very well, Errington! That's jus

him, colonel?

ese irregular practitioners, Miss Minnie. But I kn

behind Minnie at the head of the sofa; "I would

oulder to the new comer, whom she cannot se

an you

w your