for there was no one more voracious than she was for novels, or who indulged more freely in French literature; although she occasionally preached against

it.

"You really should read Marguerite's adventures: Jim Erskine surely has the book-he ought."

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Mrs. Erskine; "perhaps he may-he reads a good many French books, I believe: I do not like French books."

She had assumed what they called her demure face; and Mrs. Lewis and Georgy were laughing to themselves.

"But you will forgive poor Marguerite at last." "Poor who?-I am very deaf, my dear-I really do not understand French books: the language has changed so now, that old people can hardly be said to understand it. You can ask my son, Mr. Erskine, if you wish it. He reads French, I believe."

It was of no use; she was hopelessly stern, and bent upon making a demonstration in favour of English decorum that morning; so Mrs. Lumsden dropped the conversation.-When she was gone, Mrs. Lewis and Georgy showered down a torrent of reproaches on Mrs. Erskine, who bore them very patiently, only saying "that she supposed old people were made to be laughed at."

Mrs. Lumsden was happy in the afternoon: she had proposed charades on a small scale; Mrs. Lewis

approved, and Mr. Lewis had adopted the suggestion. More young ladies were coming, and charades would be a capital amusement. The house was in confusion; rooms, doorways, and dresses were discussed. Mrs. Lumsden took it for granted that she was to be heroine, and the others acquiesced in her expectations.

"Mrs. Lumsden is a clever little woman," said Mrs. Lewis to Georgy, when they were alone together.

"Clever!" exclaimed Georgy, opening her eyes.

"Well, don't catch me up so severely with your lofty ideas: clever means everything now-a-daysone never gives it a precise definition-it does for any sharp piece of assurance, as well as for the great ones of the earth.”

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Georgy, will you stay for the charades? "Thank you, I shall be obliged to go home before the great day; my aunt is going away, and so will want me to be housekeeper at Grainthorpe."

Mr. Erskine was set upon by Mrs. Lumsden, and begged to join in the acting; but he had not the slightest inclination to be pressed into the service. Nobody submitted more humbly to being ordered about, if he pleased it, and nobody was sometimes more gently impassible:-" He was old and worn out; could not act, and did not know how to act, and had never been able to learn anything by

heart: and then, too, he must go in a couple of days."

Mrs. Lumsden, who had decided that he should be hero, was vexed; and Mrs. Lewis laughed at him, declaring that his refusals assumed an air of fatuity; -still he would not: and from the time that he privately declared to Georgy that Mrs. Lumsden had assumed a tone of genteel slang that was quite insufferable, Georgy's judgment of her became more lenient.

There was an animated discussion at breakfast the next day concerning dresses and play-books, some of which were to be found at Monklands, hidden away after an orderly and undiscoverable manner. Mrs. Erskine could not drive there that day, and she maintained that the servants had not the discretion necessary for finding dresses and choosing books; whilst everybody else said that they must be had. Mr. Erskine had dined out the night before, and was not yet returned-so he was not available. Georgy offered to ride over and choose them; and as Monklands could not be more than eight miles off by the fields, it was quite feasible, and was agreed to directly.

The ride was a pretty one, on that bright autumn day, across fields and through rough narrow lanes, every tree and bush rich with mellow changing hues. Part of the way was along a broad road, whence the

whole valley could be seen, and in the distance purple, heathery hills; in one place stood some glorious beech-trees, overshadowing the whole road; then through narrow stony lanes again—bad for either riding or driving-and endless fir covers, bordering sometimes on one side of the road, and sometimes on the other; now past the back of a country-house, with nothing seen from the road but the stable-roof through the trees; through another fir plantation; then down a steep hill, and through a burn which was often high in winter, flooding the banks, and sometimes carrying away the foot-bridge, but was now more like a few clear stony pools than a stream. At last Georgy arrived at the gate at Monklands, a rambling little house, with two flights of gray stone steps leading up to the drawing-room windows; which were neither on the ground-floor, nor yet did they belong to the first story.

The pony had lost a shoe, and, first of all, that must be replaced. The housemaid said "there was a blacksmith, she supposed, in the village; " but she did not seem to think either ponies or blacksmiths in her province. "The village was two miles off, and there would be a blacksmith there, she supposed,"and presently, as she was perfectly aware of these two facts, she described his residence. Her suppositions involved no uncertainty; for in that part of the country, were you to ask anybody if their next

door neighbour be dead, they would answer-“ [ suppose so," had they themselves attended his funeral. The groom, who had come with Georgy, set off to find the aforesaid blacksmith; and Georgy, who began to explore the house, soon found books and dresses.

The books were in a little room that had once been a school-room, and in the closet there were still relics of children. Georgy turned over a torn book or two, looked into a little portfolio containing a drawing of some cottages, with trees growing conveniently by, and a bridge which crossed a river just where a tree was likewise growing: but this drawing was incomplete, the foliage of the tree being yet unfinished some child had done it a long, long while ago. There were also a battered battledore, and the skeletons of some shuttlecocks. In the bookcase was a medley of books-the refuse of the house. Odd volumes of sermons, and old English novels, that we, who have learnt the refinements of sentiment at the feet of France and Germany, ignore. There was all manner of obsolete and useless literature, and on the lower shelf, a thick, old Bible, bound in shining purple leather, which looked clumsy in this day of Church Services and Bibles, with their clasps, crosses, and embossed covers.

This Bible had been "a present to James Erskine, from his affectionate father, on his departure to school