me, much as these pretty faces would look
on mere money treasures. Do I not remember
how I used to look out at the
world, as from a window, and punctually as
the clock struck twelve every night, would
put away work, fetch out the best novel
of the day, light the soothing cigar, and
read for two hours? How enjoyable was
this time, almost too exquisite! But the
whole was about to collapse like a card
house.

How curious this dark country looks
"roaring by" the window with the glare
and flash from a station. The dull " burr"
of the train, and the lights from the windows
dappling the ground. As I look out
I see the small dark figure of the guard
creeping along outside. In this situation,
in my lonely blue chamber, there is a
sort of vacuity for thought, the world
is shut out and the pictures of the past
pour in ....

Was it not a very stately place—a new
castle, grand stabling, horses and carriages
in profusion, as I was shown into the great
drawing-room, and received with welcome
by the hostess. The guests were all out,
shooting, riding, walking, and—so unfortunate
she says—lunch was over. The young
ladies were in the garden, where we would
go and look for them. Stay; no, here they
were coming, and past the mullioned windows,
which ran down to the ground,
flitted two or three figures, led by a little
scarlet cloak. In a second cheerful voices
rang out like music; the door opened, and
she came tripping in. I did not see the
others. I do not know who they were
to this moment; but was it not then, my
dear foolish Austen, that everything fell in
like a house of cards—that the glory
passed away from the books and never returned?

Her name was Dora—a pretty and melodious
one; she was small, elegantly made,
and with dancing eyes, bright sloe black
hair, and a look of refinement about her
small features I have never seen in any one
else. She was full of spirits, and laughter,
and delight. I recollect to this moment
how I was introduced, with what a coquettish
solemnity she went through the
ceremony, and how, as I bowed, I felt
something whisper to me, " This is an important
moment for you, sir . . ."

She was daughter to a great House in
the neighbourhood. From that hour she
unconsciously entered into my life. She
little thought how her airy figure was to
hover about my study, and of how many
day dreams she was to be the centre. So
do the years go by; yet that dull blue cloth
before me seems to open and draw away,
and show me that gay noonday and that
"morning room" at—— House as distinctly
as if it were yesterday. In my
pocket-book I have at this moment a picture
of her, done, not by the fanciful touch
of memory, but by, perhaps, the less enduring
one of the camera. It is hard to
see by this light. Yes, there she is, a
cloud of white sweeping behind her, flowers
in her hand, with a soft inquiring look,
half serious, and that seems on the verge
of breaking into a smile, and spoiling the
operator's whole work. So I saw her then,
so I see her now. What if I was never
to see her again! But this is too lugubrious! . . .

There, the blast again—a flashing and
flaring of lamps, a screaming of the
whistles, and we rumble into a blaze of
light, with buffets and offices lit up, and
sleepy passengers waiting. One fellow in
a white hat invades my blue chamber—a
gross Belgian, with a theatrical portmanteau
pushed in before him, and an air as if
he were performing some feat of distinction.
Away flutters the little figure, and from
that moment the charm is broken, clouds
of tobacco-smoke begin, wherein, I suppose—
fitting back-ground—he sees pictures
of his own gross déjeuner à la fourchette,
or dinner, at the Trois Frères. A
true beast, that presently grunts and snores,
lives but for the present hour, and never
lifts up his soul in gratitude or humility.
There, he has got out, and we have done
with him. I know now the secret of this
dislike; he reminded me so of Grainger,
the only evil genius I ever encountered in
my life, and the evil genius that I vanquished.
Rather, grace and strength came
to me from above, to aid me to vanquish
him.

I see the very street in the little town on
that gay morning. How well I remember
our all rushing to the window of the bank
the day the regiment came in—when we
heard their music, and I must have seen
him—Grainger—walk by, his sword drawn,
at the head of his company, and looked at
him, perhaps with admiration. I little
dreamed what he was to be towards me,
later. I thought of their coming with
pleasure; it would vary the monotony. I
thought of how they would amuse her,
perhaps, for whom a country town must be
dull indeed. Later, I see soldiers walking
about the place, the officers rather fine and