a serious thing to us all. It is not every pretty
girl that, would suit Allen Fenwick."

"Alas! is there any pretty girl whom Allen
Fenwick would suit?"

"Tut! You should be above the fretful
vanity that lays traps for a compliment. Yes,
the time has come in your life and in your career
when you would do well to marry. I give my
consent to that," she added, with a smile as if
in jest, and a slight nod as if in earnest. The
knitting here went on more decidedly, more
quickly. "But I do not yet see the person.
No! 'Tis a pity, Allen Fenwick" (whenever Mrs,.
Poyntz called me by my christian name, she
always assumed her majestic motherly manner),—
"a pity that, with your birth, energies, perseverance,
talents, and, let me add, your advantages
of manner and person,—a pity that, you did not
choose a career that might achieve higher fortunes
and louder fame than the most brilliant
success can give to a provincial physician. But
in that very choice you interest me. My choice
has been much the same. A small circle, but
the first in it. Yet, had I been a man, or had
my dear colonel been a man whom it was in the
power of woman's art to raise one step higher
in that metaphorical ladder which is not the
ladder of the angels, why, then—what then?
No matter! I am contented. I transfer my
ambition to Jane. Do you not think her handsome?"

"There can be no doubt of that," said I,
carelessly and naturally.

"I have settled Jane's lot in my own mind,"
resumed Mrs. Poyntz, striking firm into another
row of the knitting. "She will marry a country
gentleman of large estate. He will go into
parliament. She will study his advancement as I
study Pontz's comfort. If he be clever, she
will help to make him a minister; if he be not
clever, his wealth will make her a personage, and
lift him into a personage's husband. And, now
that yon see I have no matrimonial designs on
you, Allen Fenwick, think if it be worth while
to confide in me. Possibly I maybe useful—"

"I know not how to thank you. But as yet,
I have nothing to confide."

While thus saying I turned my eyes towards
the open window beside which I sat. It was
a beautiful soft night. The May moon in all
her splendour. The town stretched, far and
wide, below with all its numberless lights; below
—but somewhat distant;—an intervening space
was covered, here, by the broad quadrangle (in
the midst of which stood, massive and lonely,
the grand old church); and, there, by the
gardens and scattered cottages or mansions that
clothed the sides the hill.

"Is not that the house," I said, after a short pause,
"yonder, with the three gables, the one in
which—which poor Dr. Lloyd lived—Abbots'
House?"

I spoke abruptly, as if to intimate my desire
to change the subject of conversation. My
hostess stopped her knitting, half rose, looked
forth.

"Yes. But what a lovely night! How is it
that the moon blends into harmony things of
which the sun only marks the contrast ''. That
stately old church tower, grey with its thousand
years—those vulgar tiled-roofs and chimney-pots
raw in the freshess of yesterday; now under
the moonlight, all melt into one indivisible
charm!"

As my hostess thus spoke, she had left her
seat taking her work with her, and passed from
the window into the balcony. It was not often
that Mrs. Poyntz condescended to admit what
is called "sentiment" into the range of her sharp
practical, worldly talk, but she did so at times;
always, when she did, giving me the notion of
an intellect much too comprehensive not to
allow that sentiment has a place in this life, but
keeping it in its proper place, by that mixture of
affability and indifference with which some high-
born beauty allows the genius but checks the
presumption of a charming and penniless poet.
For a few minutes her eyes roved over the scene in
evident enjoyment; then, as they slowly settled
upon the three gables of Abbots' House, her face
regained that something of hardness which
belonged to its decided character; her fingers
again mechanically resumed their knitting, and
she said, in her clear, unsoftened, metallic
chime of voice, "Can you guess why I took so
much trouble to oblige Mr. Vigors and locate
Mrs. Ashleigh yonder?"

"You favoured us with a full explanation of
your reasons."

"Some of my reasons; not the main one.
People who undertake the task of governing
others, as I do, be their rule a kingdom or a
hamlet, must adopt a principle of government
and adhere to it. The principle that suits
with the Hill is respect for the Proprieties. We
have not much money; entre nous, we have no
great rank. Our policy is, then, to set up the
Proprieties as an influence which money must
court and rank is afraid of. I had learned just
before Mr. Vigors called on me that Lady Sarah
Bellasis entertained the idea of hiring Abbots'
House. London has set its face against her;
a provincial town would be more charitable. An
earl's daughter, with a good income and an
awfully bad name, of the best manners and of
the worst morals, would have made sad havoc
among the Proprieties. How many of our
primmest old maids would have deserted Tea and
Mrs. Poyntz for champagne and her ladyship?
The Hill was never in so imminent a danger.
Rather than Lady Sarah Bellasis should have
had that house, I would have taken it myself,
and stocked it with owls.

"Mrs. Ashleigh turned up just in the
criItical moment. Lady Sarah is foiled, the
Proprieties safe, and so that question is settled."

"And it will be pleasant to have your early
friend so near you."

Mrs Poyntz lifted her eyes full upon me.

"Do you know Mrs Ashleigh?"

"Not the least."

"She has many virtues and few ideas. She
is common-place weak, as I am common-place
strong. But common-place weak can be very