"La! now, my dear, good morning! how beautiful!" said the old lady, advancing rather rapidly, for her, towards her niece, her features beaming with loving-kindness and merriment.

"Not at all,-not at all," she replied. "But I must own you are very good-natured not to be angry with me. No, I will never have anything to do with those unfathomable politics. You, and George, and the rest, may have them all to yourselves, and welcome."

"But your brother, fair lady?"

'My dear Harry? I should like very much to know what he would say to your politicopoetical Asiatic theory."

Before Mr. D'Aaroni had time to reply, the door was thrown open, and Miss Fonderson was announced. Miss Fonderson belonged to a class of females rather numerous in England; and to that particular section of that class, who, having remained single up to very mature years, either by reason of some implacable necessity, or of some eccentric idiosyncrasy of their own proper nature at all events, for no reason connected with religion-do, nevertheless, through some ethical perversity, seem to excel, in all moral excellencies, the rest of their sex. She was short and stout, between sixty and sixty-five years of age, and rejoiced in the uncoveted, unenvied, and therefore by no means undesirable gift, of a plain, good-natured countenance. Under the impression, probably, that for whatever deficiency of proportion she might be indebted to Nature, it was not, at all events, in the particular of width or circumference, her slate-coloured poplin dress was scantily gathered up in a very thin congregation of puckers, around an artificial waist, constructed just under her arms, in precisely the spot, perhaps, where it would have been if Nature had not despoiled her of the height which her breadth required. On the bottom of the dress aforesaid, one shallow, but very full flounce, kept up a proper state of expansion below, so as effectually to veil her high-quartered prunella shoes. Her bonnet, both in its make and position, had rather a quizzical appearance. Good-naturedly wishing to accord herself as far as might be to the vagaries of fashion, she had diminished the front by about half an inch; but, as its ordinary pro

tinued, shaking her niece's small white hand with a heartiness and cordiality that was all but painful, "with my whole heart. I can do that, you know!" and the old lady chuckled at her own facetiousness. Then turning her head round, and taking a survey of the room, “This is all very pretty; is it not, my dear?" she proceeded. "I'm sure I hope you will live long to enjoy it, and that you will enjoy it. Where's your mamma, my dear? Oh, there! I see;" and Miss Fonderson proceeded to her sister to congratulate her upon her daughter's bright prospects of happiness.

"My dear Fanny," she said with heartfelt warmth, addressing Mrs. Sumner, "you are looking very well. How pleased and happy you must be !-really a nice match for dear Lucy! La, now, fifty years ago, Fanny, ch! who'd have thought it! At dear Yellow-Valley House in Antigua? - Do you remember crying when : Jenny Jones was going to-what d'you call it? -carry you to school? and getting the poor slave a beating by declaring that she was pinching you? And when we were coming to England, your dropping mustard into the captain's grog whilst he was asleep? and putting a crab in his bed?" And the old lady laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks.

"But how is that sweet boy Henry?" she continued; "have you heard from him lately?" "He is reading very hard for his degree," replied Mrs. Sumner.

"O the dear boy, he'll come off splendidly when he's examined, I'm sure-so clever and affectionate. I love that boy quite as dearly as if he were my own. Give my love to him when you write, Fanny."

"I'm afraid you would sadly spoil him, Mary, if he were," said Mrs. Sumner; "I am not sure that you have not partly succeeded in doing so already."

Me, Fanny? Impossible! He spoiled? Such an affectionate, such a generous boy!"

This dialogue between Mrs. Sumner and her maiden sister had been continued standing; at the end of it Miss Fonderson withdrew, and

who could not bring himself to say, he did not. believe that he had been reading at all lately, and yet scarcely knew how to avoid the ques

tion.

Is he liked by his college friends?" pursued Mrs. Sumner.

"Oh, quite so-I should say he is the most popular man at Baliol.”

"Dear boy!" ejaculated Miss Fonderson. Mrs. Sumner looked at her sister and smiled. "Don't the masters and all that sort of people love him?" asked the full-hearted old spinster, warming with the subject, and rising to station herself close to the group in order that she might hear the better.

"I'm told that he is one of the gayest young men at Oxford,” said Mrs. Roakes. "He is in what they call a rowing set, and does not read at all."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Fonderson, boiling over with indignation, and her hitched-up bonnet heaving and tossing over her eyes, like a ship in a storm. "Who was it told you so? It isn't true, whoever it was; give Miss Fonderson's compliments to them, and tell them so. Not reading, indeed!" and then, compressing her lips and urging her breath smartly through them, she effected a long and loud sort of purring sound by the labial vibration.

“I ask pardon, madam, but I think you have mispronounced, if I might say so, the word rowing," suggested the mild and amiable Mr. Banbury; "the fact is, he pulls an excellent oar. I think you should have said rowing set."

"Ah! well, I suppose poor Harry has got weaknesses, like other people, Mrs. Roakes," said his sweet affectionate mother, "but it must be a noble character that surpasses his on the whole. He is hasty, and shows his likes and dislikes too strongly. But for generosity of disposition and depth of feeling, making every allowance for a mother's partiality, I do not think he has his equal. He feels too deeply."

"Well, he has a very partial and affectionate mother, at least," was Mrs. Roakes's reply. She then rose to take her departure, to the no small relief of her listeners. Mr. Banbury politely offered his arm to conduct her to the carriage. They had passed through the anteroom, where Mrs. Roakes had lingered for a few moments to admire the flowers, and were entering the hall, when they were met by Mr. Perigord, who had just returned from his interview.

"Ah! my dear Mr. Perigord," she exclaimed, in a voice which was distinctly heard in the drawing-room, "I'm so glad I have been fortunate enough not to miss seeing you. What a lucky man you are!" she continued, in a coquettish manner; "I have not seen such a bride since I moved to Eaton Square; no, I may say never! But you will be kept in order, mind that, as sure as my name is Roakes. Now, do just come

and give me your opinion of my new turn-out. You are such a judge of those things."

Mr. Perigord politely, but rather haughtily, complied. "Was that your carriage I saw standing near the door as I came in, madam?” he inquired. "It is very like one I saw at Millins's of Brook Street!"

"Well, I suppose it may even still be called his," replied Mrs. Roakes, "for it is still in my power to refuse it."

"You are thinking of purchasing it?"

"Why, indeed, I already consider it mine!" "It is a very neat affair. You treat your coachman to an easy chair, I observe," said Mr. Perigord, as the footman closed the door upon Mrs. Roakes.

"Oh! that," she said, putting her head out of the carriage window, "is a chair-bed which I am going to lend to a poor woman who is ill." The fact was, a few evenings before, the visitors at Mrs. Roakes's house having exceeded by one the number of her beds, she had hired for the night the piece of furniture which now adorned the roof and coach-box of her carriage, and had taken advantage of the conveyance in which she was paying her highest prized morning calls, to convey it back to the upholsterer's free of expense.' She waited until Mr. Banbury had gone fairly off, and Mr. Perigord had withdrawn into his mansion, and then directed her footman where she and the bed-chair were to be driven to. The footman conveyed his instructions to the coachman, and skipping up behind, staff in hand, Mrs. Roakes was whisked off to the upholsterer's in Millins the coachmaker's neat turn-out. Mr. Perigord retired to the library, having commissioned one of the pages at the door to request Mrs. Perigord to be so kind as to favour him with presence.

her

Beauteous, passing the power of words to describe, was Lucy Perigord as she gaily entered her husband's apartment. Nor pen nor pencil could convey aught approaching to an adequate representation of the lustre of those eyes so brightly and so deeply blue; of their ever-varying expression, now of the softest melancholy, then of the brightest joyousness; now drooping in thought, at times flashing with the fire of some quick emotion that had been kindled within her; always beaming with intellect, and impressing every one who gazed upon her with a feeling, as distinct as indescribable, of the innocence and sweetness of her disposition and her deep love. It was the long, rich, dark eyelashes which overshadowed them that occasioned an expression so rare and so ever-varying ; casting a hue of thoughtfulness, or melancholy, as they drooped over those pensive orbs when her countenance was in repose, or gently raised to reveal the most laughing of glances and the

(1) A fact which, strange as it may appear, actually occurred in

'London.

brightest of smiles. The nose, that feature which is so often out of keeping with the rest of many a lovely countenance, so much so, that a sort of ludicrousness seems to attach to its very name,-contributed, in no small degree, to the singular beauty of her face. Its outline was as fine and delicate as though chiselled out of the purest alabaster, and the dilating nostrils bespoke, even to the most casual observer, an earnestness and generosity and nobility of nature, which her affectionate gentleness conspired to elevate almost to something beyond humanity. The mouth, too, was not the least expressive feature. The lips were rather thin than otherwise, but full, and of a redness fresh as the morning rose. The corners of her mouth were slightly raised, conveying an expression of satirical archness; and, perhaps, too, a richness almost voluptuous: thus reducing again to a standard more strictly human a countenance which, save for that alone, had been almost too spiritual. As soon as the servant had closed the door, she advanced gaily to her husband, and threw her graceful arms round his neck.

"My dearest husband," she said, (she loved that word,) "what a long interview you have had with Sir Robert! However, I dare say you were rejoiced to be out of the way of such a concourse of visitors. What has taken place? Are you pleased at the result of your conversation? Tell me, dearest, all about it."

"There was nothing that would interest you, my dear," replied Mr. Perigord, imprinting a statesman-like kiss upon the whiteness of his wife's forehead.

"My dearest George!" she replied, "why, what can happen of ever so small moment concerning you which does not interest me?"

"My dear Lucy," said Mr. Perigord, somewhat coldly, it must be confessed, considering to whom it was that he was speaking, "negotiations about state affairs between the principal men in office and others, however humble, with whom they condescend to negotiate, are, I think, better kept from your sex."

"And cannot you trust me with a secret?" inquired Mrs. Perigord, accompanying the question with one of her loving and winning smiles.

"Not with secrets of that importance," he answered.

"Do you really think that I would ever breathe the whisper of a hint of anything you desired me not to mention ?" she asked.

of my sex in general, you will soon find it does not apply to your wife.”

"But you must never expect me to trust you with secrets of such moment, Lucy," replied her husband.

"Oh! yes, but you will though," she answered, laughing, "and I shall prize your confidence the more, from knowing it to be a special exception in my favour, and from having undergone the pleasant labour of winning it-shall I not, George dear?"

"Whilst I think of it," said the Oxford firstclass man and M.P., who was thinking more of politics than of love, of Sir Robert Peel than his wife, and of himself, it may be conjectured, than either, "do you mind, Lucy, having that multitude of flowers in the ante-room moved off, now your glorious three days are over? I have requested Mr. Montacute, the celebrated connoisseur, to expend 11,000l. for me upon the best paintings he can meet with, and I wish to place them in that apartment.”

"Of course I do not, if it be your wish. Shall we send them all off to Pendlebury?"

"Perhaps you had better do so; and, as you are sending, would it not be better to send all the flowers there, my dear?”

"Not unless you particularly wish it, I am so passionately fond of flowers. Besides, their fragrance, and colour, and green leaves, almost bring the country into this dull, crowded, close London; and you know how I love the country."

"As you like, my dear,” replied the imperturbable young statesman, "but I have an aversion to them. A parcel of flowers, seeming as if they were trying all day long to tumble out of all the windows of a town house, has a most insufferably Cockney appearance to my taste."

"Then, of course, I will send them all away with the greatest pleasure," was the prompt and affectionate reply.

"You know, my dear love," continued Mr. Perigord, "if London is disagreeable, you can always run down to Pendlebury, and stay as long as you please."

"But you will not be able to do so when you are in Parliament?" she replied, inquiringly.

"No," replied her husband; "but I know that you cannot bear London, and I do hope you will never wait for me, whenever you may wish to breathe a little country air, and pick daisies in the meadows."

"George!" exclaimed his astonished wife, regarding him with another of those thoughtful and scrutinizing glances, but this time it was more prolonged. At length, on a sudden, the long dark eyelashes were gaily raised, and the sweet smile, which none but she could smile, played upon her rose-red lips and in the depths of her clear blue eyes, as she said, "My dearest George, what would the country be to me in your absence? do you imagine it will ever be