whole composition. She is worth three times my weight, in pure gold. Ain't you, Maudie "

"I should say," answered Maud, stiffly, "that a discussion of our comparative merits would be highly uninteresting to Mr. Plew."

Mr. Plew looked amazingly uncomfortable. The vicar came to his rescue.

"We are much obliged to your unremitting attention, Mr. Plew. And to it is owing, under Providence, the happy issue of this affair. I can venture to say that Sir John is very sensible of his debt to you. I have seen and spoken with him to-day for the first time."

"O, indeed, sir ?"

"Yes; a very agreeable man, Sir John." "I dare say he is, Mr. Levincourt. But you know the circumstances under which I have seen him have not been favourable exactly." Here Mr. Plew tittered faintly. "H'm! Not a good patient, eh?" "I won't say that, sir. But I should say he had not been accustomed to be restrained in any way. His servant manages him, though."

"Paul is a capital fellow; one of those excellent servants that one never finds in England."

"Indeed, sir ?"

"No, our soil won't grow them. Or, if one is to be found here and there, they are, at any rate, not indigenous to Dane shire."

"Daneshire people, high or low, are not remarkable for civility," observed Veronica. "Nor servility," added Maud.

"I suppose we shall soon be losing our guest," resumed the vicar. "He spoke today of relieving us of his presence, et cetera. The fact is, that to us personally his stay involves scarcely any inconvenience. But he will naturally be anxious to be gone as soon as may be. How soon do you think he will be able to travel ?"

Mr. Plew could not tell. He would be able to judge better on that point when the sick man should have left his couch. He anticipated that Sir John would find himself very weak. There had been much prostration.

"I hear," proceeded Mr. Plew, "that Sir John Gale's groom and three hunters have been sent away from the Crown. I was at Shipley Magna to-day, and was told that the servant and horses had left for Danecester on Wednesday. They are bound for a place, that Sir John owns, in the south, somewhere. I forget the name

of it. He is immensely rich, from what I can gather."

As thus Mr. Plew gossipped on, in a monotonous tone, the vicar listened, or seemed to listen, with half-closed eyes. His thoughts were in reality harking back to Veronica's phrase that Shipley must be "a mere little ugly blot " in Sir John's map of the world. And then the vicar indulged in some "sweet self-pity;" contrasting his days spent among Daneshire hinds, and under Daneshire skies, with the brightness of his three years' sojourn abroad. And yet those years spent in foreign lands had been haunted by the ghost of a lost love, and by a vain regret.

Presently Mr. Plew's talk turned on the choir of St. Gildas, the progress it had made, and the desirability of introducing still further improvements. Then Mr. Levincourt roused himself to attend to what was being said. He began to talk himself, and he talked very well. Veronica and Maud sat a little apart, away from the glare of the fire, and held a whispered consultation as to their toilets on the nineteenth.

Maud had her share of natural girlish interest in the topic; but she tired of it long before her companion. With a quiet movement she drew a book from beneath a heap of coloured wools and canvas in her work-basket, and began to read, almost stealthily, half hidden behind the vicar's arm-chair.

Veronica advanced to the hearth, drew her chair up opposite to Mr. Plew, and disposed one foot, coquettishly peeping from under the folds of her dress, on the polished steel bar of the fender.

Mr. Plew stumbled, stammered, and lost the thread of his discourse.

"I beg your pardon," said the vicar, "I don't comprehend your last remark. I was saying that there are some pretty quaint bits of melody in those sonatas of Kozeluch. Miss Desmond plays the pianoforte part. Bring your flute some evening, and try them over with her. The pianoforte may be unlocked again now, I suppose. When I said that Sir John's stay involved no personal inconvenience to us, I reckoned on our being allowed to hear the voice of music once again."

"Mr. Plew's flute has the softest of voices, papa. I am sure its aërial breathings could not penetrate to the blue chamber."

"Ah, there, now-there, Miss Veronica -Miss Levincourt-you're chaffing me."

'I beg pardon-laughing at me." "How can you think so, Mr. Plew ?" "Oh, I know. But you are privileged, of course.'

"Am I?"

"I mean young ladies in general are privileged to say what they please. I'm sure, now, that you don't really care about my flute playing. You would not like to hear it."

"But it is papa and Miss Desmond whom you play for. If they are satisfied, all is well. I don't pretend to be a virtuosa. And I will say this for your flute, Mr. Plew; it is very unobtrusive."

The sparkle of raillery in her eyes, the saucy smile on her lip, the half disdainful grace of her attitude, appeared to entrance the little surgeon. His eyes blinked as he looked at her. There was no revolt in his meek soul against the scarcely disguised insolence of her manner.

The vicar was a man of fine breeding. His daughter's behaviour to-night jarred on his taste. Mr. Levincourt did not usually trouble himself to observe, still less to correct, such shortcomings. But his interview with Sir John Gale had awakened old associations. He was conscious of the impression which his own polished address had made on his guest.

When Mr. Plew had departed, the vicar said, in a tone more of complaint than rebuke, "You should not tease that mild little man, Veronica. He does not understand raillery, and will either presume on it to become familiar, or else suffer from wounded feeling.. Neither alternative is to be desired."

"Papa mio, he likes it!"

"But I do not. Besides, it is of you that I am thinking. Flippancy in a woman is, of all things, the most detestable. Not to speak of the matter on higher grounds (the vicar habitually avoided all appeal to "higher grounds" in his non-professional moments); "it is utterly in bad taste-mauvais genre."

Veronica flushed high with anger, for her amour propre was stung; but by the time that she and Maud retired for the night, the cloud of temper had dispersed. Veronica came into Maud's room, and began chatting gaily about Mrs. Sheardown's dinner party. "Maud,' said she, Maud, I have decided on amber-a good rich amber, you know. I shall wear an amber satin

"Very well."

"Very well? Are you in one of your frozen moods, Maud Hilda Desmond? If so, thaw as quickly as may be; I want to talk to you.'

Maud wrapped a white dressing-gown around her, seated herself by the fire, and proceeded to loosen her straight silky hair from its plaits.

After a pause she said, "I do not wish to be frozen, Veronica; but your sudden changes of temperature are fatiguing. Just now, you were like a brooding thunder cloud. At present, all is sunshine and blue sky. Do you suppose you are likely always to find persons able and willing to follow these capricious variations ?"

Veronica took this speech very meekly. "I can't help it, Maudie," said she.

Yes, you can; you can command yourself when there is a sufficient object in view. You don't exhibit these vagaries in the presence of people whom you desire to charm."

"I wonder why I let you talk so to me! I am your elder by two years, you little solemn white owl!"

Maud quietly released the last coil of her hair from its bonds, and said nothing. Suddenly Veronica knelt down by her companion's side and clasped her arms round her waist. So she remained, still and silent for some minutes. Then she slid down into her favourite posture on the rug, and exclaimed, without looking up: "I wish I could be good like you, Maud!"

"Nonsense! Good like me? I am not very good. But we can all be better if we try hard."

"I cannot. No; I cannot. I-I-want so many things that good people despiseor pretend to despise.'

"What things?"

scenery and the quaint idiomatic conversation of the coachman: a jovial, genial gentleman, who bears the whole of the expense of the affair. We can be carried into Berks under the auspices of a noble lord, or under those of his partner, that well-known sporting personage, Mr. Cherubim. (Ah, Cherubim, how long is it since you and I rode on a drag together for a trip from Oxford to Henley and Maidenhead, and how many of that pleasant company have "gone under" since that time!) Or, we can go to Brighton by the coach, the starting of which gave life to the present revival movement. That sounds pleasantesta drive to Brighton, a swim at Brill's, a little dinner at the Albion, and home by the evening train. We decide for Brighton.

The Brighton coach starts from the Ship at Charing Cross punctually at eleven. When we arrive there, a few minutes before the time, a little crowd has already collected, which eyes the vehicle, the team, and the intending passengers, with curiosity mingled with admiration. There are boys with newspapers, and children with cigar-lights; but what has become of the man with the net of lemons, the man with the many-bladed knife-which he was always proving on his tattered leather glove, and the man with a silver watch-guard extended between the forefingers of his hands, who always used to haunt the White Horse Cellar and the Ship, on the departure of the coaches? While we are looking at the coach, which is beautifully built and hung, with an under carriage singularly light for its strength, and is coloured dark blue with red wheels, the honorary secretary introduces himself to us, and from him- bright, active, and intelligent-we learn some particulars of the business arrangements of the

concern.

There are, it seems, five proprietors by whom the coach is horsed: one of them, who is perhaps the finest whip in England, providing the teams for two stages. The scheme was entered on as a hobby by these gentlemen, and as such it continues; but our informant expects that this year the balance sheet will show that the returns equal the expenses; not the wear and tear of the horses, of course, for, as we shall see, nearly all the teams are composed of valuable horses; but the cornchandler's bill, the stabling and the wages of the professional coachman and guard. The professional coachman ? Oh yes, there is always a professional coachman, ready to take the ribbons in case all the gentlemen should be engaged, and one of the strictest rules is that no amateur-the proprietors have been driving all their lives and can scarcely be regarded as amateurs-shall on any pretext be allowed to have anything to do with the horses. "I want to learn to drive, and I'm thinking of taking some shares in your coach!" said a young gentleman last summer. "When you have learned to drive, it will be time enough to think whether we will allow you to take any shares," was the reply. Our professional,

even when not driving, rarely misses a journey; he is heart and soul in the concern, and takes as much pride and interest in it as any of us. Here he is; let me introduce Mr. Tedder. (There is no reason why Alfred Tedder's name should not appear here. He was for many years a first-class coachman on the Oxford road, and, as we are assured, has the good word of every one who knows him.) Tedder will not drive to-day, however. This is rather a gala-day; three out of the five proprietors are coming down, and the first stage will be driven by the Colonel.

The busy hands are slipping over Big Ben's great face, the crowd of bystanding idlers is increased, the helpers are ready at the horses' heads, and there are other signs of departure. Two big sacks, one of them labelled as containing ice, are slung up beneath the back seat, two ladies are inside, and the outside passengers are enjoined to take their places. Two of the proprietors-brothers, portly, pleasant, jovial gentlemen, in figure and hearty geniality recalling the Cheeryble brothers-get up behind, where they are joined by Tedder and the guard. To us is allotted the honour of the box-seat. The others climb to their seats, then the Colonel swings himself up beside us, the helpers loose their hold on the horses, the horn sounds, and we are off. Whitehall is pretty full, Parliament-street is thronged, and there is a crowd on Westminster-bridge; but the Colonel, who is a slight, slim, wiry man of middle age, with a clear blue eye, which shows you at once that he could never be surprised or taken aback, heeds not such obstacles. With his whip in the socket, he quietly tools his team of four handsome brown horses along, talking to us that airiest and pleasantest gossip, that chit-chat which is so light and yet so difficult to sustain, which none but accomplished men of the world manage to rattle on with. Now, amidst stares of the populace and hat touches from all the omnibus drivers, we bowl along through that strange region between Westminster and Kennington Park, region of marine-store shops, fried-fish vendors, and cheap photographic artists. Elderly merchants and City men, who can afford to take things easily, are driving townward in their mail phaeton. On the box of one of the omnibuses we meet a well-known theatrical manager, deep in his newspaper; and at Kennington-gate cheery greetings are exchanged between several of our party and a weather-stained veteran, who was for many years a four-horse whip, but who, under pressure of circumstances, has descended to a 'bus. At Kennington-gate, did we say? That stronghold of tolls has been swept away, long since, and the actual turnpike-gate, over which there were so many hard fights on Derby days, may be seen close by Brixton-hill, having been bought by an omnibus proprietor, and converted into part of the fence for his property.

Now, through Streatham, where the new villas and the old brick houses, standing back from the road in their trim gardens, have an