"Not many," replied Flora; "but a few. There's the clergyman, you have seen him, good old Mr. Ward"

"Oh, yes, I have seen him,-the bald-headed little man, with such a benevolent look and patronizing smile, that I quite expected him to pat me on the head, and say, 'There's a good little dear!""

Naughty little dear, I should say," laughed Flora. "Oh! he is such a kind old friend, and preaches so beautifully, I don't know what we should do without him. We have known him and his dear old lady so long,-he was a school-fellow of my dear father. there's Captain Lepine

Then

"A captain! that sounds more lively. Is he an agreeable individual?”

"Yes; he takes care of my garden, and brings me cuttings of his roses.

He's an invalid"

"And he lost a leg in battle

"I hope that he does not stump about on a wooden one; one could hardly stand that, even in a romance! I suppose that he was wounded at Sobraon, or some of those Indian battles with unpronounceable names?”

"No; he was wounded at Navarino."

"Navarino!" exclaimed Ada, with affected horror; "then he must be a century old at the least! Does no one live in this place under eighty years of age?"

"Yes; the doctor and his wife, and half a dozen little ones, the eldest not out of the school-room."

"And nobody besides?"

"Mrs. Lacy, the widow of a banker, who occupies the white house which you observe yonder; but she does not see a great deal of society."

"I should think not," observed Ada, drily. "It is a case of the Spanish fleet thou canst not see, for it is not in sight.""

"With ennui, no doubt."

"Ah! and I was forgetting old Miss Butterfield; we passed her just as we turned into the fields."

"Almost bent into a hoop, like an old witch, and dressed after the fashion of our great-grandmothers! If she had only sported a red cloak in addition to her poke-bonnet, I should have gone and asked her to tell my fortune!"

"Fie! fie! how can you talk so?" cried Flora.

"Well, well, my good coz," exclaimed Ada, as she threw herself down on the roots of a gnarled oak, which, green with moss, offered a tempting seat; "I can only say that I consider you buried alive here, quite buried alive!" she repeated with emphasis, plucking a daisy and pulling it to pieces; "and you so charming and fair,—I am always fancying how Eddis would paint you, or whether you have not sat to him already, you are so like one of his soft, saintly beauties!"

"Don't be so absurd," said Flora, colouring. "Ah! that was all that was wanting,-a little heightened blush on the pale white rose!" cried Ada, looking with real admiration, perhaps not unmixed with envy, at the fair, delicate features before her; for the gipsy hat which Flora wore had fallen back on her shoulders, and as the breeze played amongst her auburn tresses, and the shadow of the young leaves fell on her gentle brow, she looked one whom to behold was to love.

"Come, come," said Flora, willing to change the conversation, which embarrassed her at the

time, though, sooth to say, she found her mind. frequently recurring to it afterwards, and with no disagreeable sensation; "if you think that to live here is so dreadful, how is it that you can submit for a whole fortnight to be buried alive' in the country?"

"Well, my dear, I must not take credit for too sublime heroism. The London season had hardly commenced, not a single dance was in view. I think that the melody of all your nightingales, and the perfume of all your flowers, would hardly have tempted me away after Easter."

"And what are the delights which you prize so much?" inquired Flora, with some little curiosity. "You know that I have never spent two days together from my home,—that I know nothing of what passes in the world, -that though I was born in London, I was so young when we left Golden Square

"Golden Square! my dear, never mention such a place,—nobody lives in Golden Square." Flora coloured again, and felt uncomfortable, she scarcely knew why.

"You ask me," continued Ada, "what are the delights of town. It is hard to describe

them, they are so utterly different from any which you experience here. Bustle and noise, incessant rattling of carriages and thundering raps at the door, late breakfasts,-perhaps in bed, dinner at the hour of your supper; and when you, innocent dear, are retiring to rest, the maid is placing the flowers in my hair, and I am off in a flutter of muslin or tulle, to mount step by step a crowded staircase, and enter some room where it is impossible to move, and barely possible to breathe!"

"And this night after night?" inquired Flora.

"Yes, night after night; that is to say, unless the season is a dull one."

"And do you not feel knocked up in the morning?"

"Well, not inclined for a long country walk through fields garnished with stiles, nor for teaching stupid children in a school, nor for listening to a very sober, sensible book, such as that to which my dear good aunt is treating us; but just inclined to rest on a sofa with a diverting novel in my hand, to chat to amusing visitors, or to fill up the time till dinner with a concert or a botanical fête.”