in which were confined masses of decomposed
and mouldy poultry dropping into
powder as any one walked across the room.

The view, too, on the roof was poor
enough, but every visitor was duly dragged
up a little narrow garret stair to emerge
on a slushy lead platform. Mr. Cecil was
taken to see all these beauties by the two
ladies, who, to do them justice, exerted
themselves to the utmost to please him,
describing the various objects of interest.
Coming down, they found the rest of the
party on the point of starting.

"Eh! what!" said his lordship, in pleasant
surprise, "I thought you were lost.
What were you doing with Mr. Leader,
my dears? Now then we ought to be going.
Is the pony-carriage round? See here,
Findlater, we have any amount of room, you
know. I can take one of your young ladies
with me in the mail-phaeton. And Amelia
will give Mr. Leader the back seat of the
little pony-carriage. You can do that,
Amelia. Here they are, coming round."

"So you've bought a mail-phaeton, my
lord," said the Doctor, innocently. "Oh! I
must go and look at it."

"Nonsense, Findlater, you know well
enough that's my hobby. If you made me
a present of the best carriage Hooper could
turn out, I wouldn't give up my favourite
carriage. I have an affection for it. Now,
Leader, jump into that back seat."

The young man, always influenced by a
determined manner in others, hesitated,
and looked at the basket carriage.

The Doctor at once interposed. "He
must go in the barouche- still in my hands.
See here, my lord, "and he whispered to
him mysteriously. All the parties then
ascended, and the three carriages drove away
in quite a procession. The Doctor was in
tremendous spirits, and kept his party in
roars on the subject of those two sweet
girls in "their little go-cart." "Fancy
you behind, my dear boy, bobbing up and
down, or actually scraping the ground with
your back. Heaven help the poor pony—
and old Save-All there in front with his
rusty mail-phaeton. Did you ever see such
a hen-roost of a vehicle!"

So the three vehicles rolled along the
dusty road on this fine and sunny day; and
young Mr. Leader laughed and laughed
again as he had never done before. It
was going to be such a happy day for
him. Those two bright girls seemed to
have such love and sympathy for him.
But here they were turning into the gateway,
a woman holding the gate open,
which led to the shady grounds round the
ruined Shipton Abbey. It was known that
Lord Shipton levied tolls here, and charged
sixpence a head, which of course all went
to the repairs of the abbey. It was a
favourite place for picnics, and the
sixpences were said to be as good as a
head-clerkship to his lordship. "Still a
big window tumbled down this very year,
that had literally been screaming for
repairs — odd, wasn't it? And I'll show you
two more, ripe and ready to go next windy
day," said the Doctor.

It was a pretty spot, well shaded, peaceful,
retired, with a little brook that ran
through the centre, chattering, murmuring,
and was, even on that hot day, cold,
dark, and clear. A tall hill sheltered it,
up which led a winding path to one of
those innumerable "Lovers' Leaps," which
are scattered over the kingdom. A romantic
spot, and a suitable standing-place like a
balcony, is all that is necessary — the lovers
follow as of course.

The officers and other guests were
grouped in the shade by the side of the
brook. The band and the stands of music
were "picketed" under a tree.

"I hope," said Lord Shipton, "they
asked you nothing at the gate — I will take
it as a favour for any one to let me know.
It would be most improper if there was any
demand of the kind from my guests."

"Talking of guests," said the Doctor,
with a sly look, "I hope no gentleman has
forgot his contribution. We'll have to fall
back on the old monks if he has."

The point of this remark was so obvious
that every one smiled, and Colonel Bouchier
gave a loud guffaw. But Lord Shipton
did not see it. Now the band began to
play, and his lordship led the way, explaining
that here was where the monks dined,
here where they walked in cloister, there
was my lord abbot's room, and all the rest
of it.

Soon they began to tire of this showmanship,
especially the military gentlemen, who
soon clustered about the Doctor and Mr.
Webber. These worthies were in more
than usual "feather," the Doctor offering
to put up his coat to auction, and let it go
for what it would fetch. "It would bring
all the medical knowledge its owner
possessed into the head of any one who bought
it, just as Billy's coat there, if he sold it,
would bring all his piety into our heads.
On second thoughts, though, I won't part
with it. Why shouldn't I feel an affection
for it, as Shipton does for his bath-chair?