to private information received, young Harry Rivers is going out. I am very glad that he is gone at last."

"I hope his going may be for good, Mr. Gilbert," responded the lady, moodily.

"I hope it will, my love. I don't wish the young blade any harm, so he will keep out of our way."

"I am sure he has kept out of the way ever since you had that dreadful quarrel with him, months ago," said Mrs. Gilbert. "Pho! my dear: : you know that he has been in our way ever since then. Look at Clara."

"You shouldn't say our way, Mr. Gilbert; for I wash my hands of it entirely. It is very well if you think that he is out of your way, and out of Mr. Brooke's way, at last; but don't say our way—meaning mine."

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Why, my love," said Mr. Gilbert, lifting his eyebrows, “what new fancy is this? I thought you agreed with me that it was a good thing that affair was off altogether—that it would never do to let Clara throw herself away upon a beggar."

66

Oh, I don't want Clara to have young Rivers; and I dare say he is of the same mind. It will be a good thing if Clara ever gets well enough again to have anybody."

"Clara will get well enough now, my dear, now that she knows Henry Rivers is gone right away. It was the sudden shock of seeing him so unexpectedly that day that brought on her illness; and she has been kept on the kivvy-vivvy

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Oh, Mr. Gilbert, DON'T!" exclaimed the lady, with unwonted energy: “where in the world did you ever learn French?”

"I am happy to say I never learnt French, my love; but I know I am right about that word. And I say again, if Clara hadn't been kept on the"

And the

"And I say again, DON'T, Mr. Gilbert; and there's Clara's bell, and I must go and see what the poor child wants.” lady rose.

But

"Well, my dear, go, by all means; and if you can manage to let her know about the Three Sisters having sailedMrs. Gilbert was already out of hearing.

The sun kept on shining. It shone upon the gate-keeper's house, and on the cheerful countenance of Mrs. Gower, who stood at the cottage door, with a red cardinal cloak over her shoulders, and a black silk bonnet like a miniature coal-scuttle perched upon her best cap of sprigged book muslin, and with high pattens on her feet, which increased her stature by three inches good.

Mrs. Gower's honest face was clouded now, however; and tears seemed ready to start from her eyes, as she turned round to give her final orders to a small handmaiden who was vehemently rocking a wicker cradle in the snug room behind.

"Be sure to take care of the baby, Susan," she said, in a sorrowful voice.

"Yes, mistress."

"And wash the taters well after you've pared 'em, and put 'em in the pot when the clock goes eleven."

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Yes, mistress."

"And set out the table for dinner by twelve, Susan; the cold pork, and the bit of bacon, and the bread, and the pepper and salt and mustard, and the cold apple pudding-there's a good girl."

"Yes, mistress."

"And Susan, the beer-no, you needn't draw that. Gower'll draw it for hisself. And, Susan, when baby wakes, you'll—you'll nuss him well, be sure."

"Yes, mistress."

“And you'll make him his pap nice."

"Oh yes, mistress, I reckon I will, too."

"That's a good Susan; and you'll tell Gower, when he comes

in, that I've had bad news from the Wash sin' he went to work this morning, about poor Mary Austin, that she's going very fast; and I am gone over to see if I can be of any help; and that I said he wouldn't mind. Be sure and tell him all that."

"Yes, mistress," returned Susan, relapsing into her trisyllabic answer, the pap enthusiasm having faded away.

“And, Susan, if any gentry comes, be quick in opening the gate."

"Yes, mistress.”

"And be sure you curchy to 'em. They'll take notice if you don't. They're that silly and thirsting for reverence always, that honesty goes for nothing when 'tis set agin a curchy. So mind and curchy, Susan."

"Yes, mistress, I'll do that," said the dumpy little servant, somewhat impatiently; for she thought, maybe, that she had taken in as much instruction for that time as her little head could contain.

"And I think that's all, Susan, only I'd like to give baby a kiss before I go, if twasn't for the pattens (I wish Philcox would make some as wouldn't clatter on the bricks, I do): but 'tis like they'd wake him. And, dear me, if I haven't forgot my umbrella. There's no trusting to these sun-shining mornings. I shouldn't a bit wonder if it rains before night; and, Susan

But Susan was out of hearing. She had darted up a flight of stairs for the umbrella, leaving the cradle to rock itself the while; and just then a clatter of horses' hoofs was heard approaching the gate from the outer road,

"It isn't the doctor," said Mrs. Gower to herself; "he was here last night, and—if it isn't that Squire Brooke!"

Mrs. Gower's disgust, however, did not prevent her from hastening to unlatch the great gate and throw it open, just as the horseman had reined in his steed.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gower," said the gentleman. "You

have good news for me, I hope. But eh-what's the matter? You have been crying. Nothing wrong at the house, is there ?" "Nothing that I know of, Mr. Brooke."

"The young lady-Miss Clara-have you heard how she is to-day ?"

"I have heard nothing this morning, sir; but yesterday afternoon the doctor told me, as he was going away, that Miss Clara is getting on bravely."

"I am very glad to hear it, Mrs. Gower. Good morning." And so he rode on briskly towards Fairbourne Court; and we have to record that, in spite of her prudential instructions to Susan, Mrs. Gower forgot to drop her courtesy till the gentleman was almost out of sight, and thus added another illustration to the true saying, that "it is easier to preach than to practise.'

So far, even then, from dropping a courtesy, Jason Brooke was no sooner out of earshot than Mrs. Gower broke out indignantly in the following words:

"He's a heartless, selfish man, that's what he is; and you may tell him I say so, anybody that likes. Yes, much he cared about my having been crying; and much he cared to know what my trouble was, when he knew it hadn't anything to do with Miss Gilbert. Would Harry Rivers have gone by like that? I know he wouldn't; for he had always a kind word for a poor body, always, and would have done anything a'most to comfort a poor creeter in trouble. But this man-this! why, he has got that writ on his brazen face which I wouldn't trust to for so much as putting a poor dog into his power. And to think of Miss Clara -well, 'tis a queer world." And Mrs. Gower's little black silk bonnet was thrown back with such a violent toss of the head, it was a wonder the strings under her chin were not snapped asunder. She courtesy to Jason Brooke, though he was lord and master of Hurlock Chase! catch her doing it.

And, then, to calm her indignation, and without speaking again

to Susan, who, having brought out her mistress's umbrella, had retreated into the cottage, Mrs. Gower set off at a great pace on her four miles' walk to the Wash, with her gown skirt drawn up through the pocket-hole, to keep it out of the dirt, and her tall pattens carrying her safely over the puddles in the road.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE CARPENTER'S YARD AT THE WASH, AND GIPSY LEE.

It was a very pretty rustic cottage, with a high roof of thick straw thatch, and a great stack of red brick chimneys rising high above the ridge; not an ugly square mass of brick and mortar, but an ornamental tower of many angles, after the manner of a miniature fortification. The cottage itself was not a straight, right-lined, quadrilateral figure, with equal opposite sides, but consisted of two parallelograms placed at right angles with each other like the letter L. Thus it had two fronts, which were very white with periodical coats of whitewash, and two doors, both opening out upon a square paved court; the other two sides of the court being shut in with wooden rails, bright green, a swinggate giving access to the court-yard from the road beyond.

A latticed porch, likewise painted bright green, and serving as a support to the weak and trailing branches of a summer rosetree, gave access to one of the doors of the cottage, and thence into a brick-floored kitchen or living room, from the wide casement of which was a pleasant view of the road dipping down into a valley, where it was lost in the broad, shallow stream of the Wash, until, gradually emerging from this watery bed, it ascended the slope of the opposite hill. Also, looking across the court, a spectator at this window had a side view of the second door and