touch of acrid sectarianism curdled up her better
nature), had no consideration, no indulgence, for
poor Miss Davida and her doings: from her long
solitary rides on old Hector, the venerable relic
of a hunter who tenanted her uncle's little stable,
to the perpetual mixture of faded greens and
blues in her somewhat untidy attire, which
always gave my vagabond fancy the impression
that her gowns and shawls were continually
afflicted with a series of severe contusions. Her
flute playing too—her only accomplishment, and
one strange enough, it must be allowed, in a lady
—came under the ban of Madame's most fiery
anathemas. It was, in truth, as she well knew,
the secret of the offending Victor's first slip into
transgression, for Miss Davida had a true
musical ear, and skill and feeling enough to
reach the hearts of her hearers, especially if by
chance the grotesque figure of the player were
unseen. And Victor Huillier really prized good
music made by others, though his own was
angular and colourless enough. And so, of
course, the luckless flute-playing of Miss Davida
was ranked among the very worst of those
transgressions against the duties of right-thinking
spinsterhood, by which, as Madame loudly
declared, "that old maiden was for ever shocking
the conveniences."

Many a time, in our walks, we met Miss
Davida trotting along the lanes, her short olive-
green habit splashed to the knees, and her pale
blue bonnet-strings fluttering behind her, and
many a time she made my sisters happy by the
gift of heavy bunches of great shiny blackberries
which she had twisted off the hedges on her
way, with the hooked whip she always carried.
I myself was growing a great girl then, and
generally lingered a few steps in the rear on
such occasions, trying hard to leave the taste
for blackberries behind me with other childish
propensities, but wanting the courage to look
on calmly at the feast.

At Godpapa Vance's, too, I used to see Miss
Davida, but rarely, for her restless ways and
abrupt jerks of laughter discomposed the old
gentleman, and I verily believe made him half
afraid of her, so used was he to weigh out his
emotions as he did his rhubarb and manna, by
the grain. Aunt Bella, dear soul, with her
large benevolence and her proneness to give a
share of protection to all things persecuted, had
a kind word to say of the offending "old
maiden," as often as Madame's wrath overflowed
in complaints against her; and she would have
taken up her defence yet more stoutly, but for
the unconscious feeling of liege-vassalage to her
"beloved," which constrained her, as far as her
sweet nature would permit, to accept godpapa's
nervous dislikes, and bow to his washed-out
antipathies, and so keep the gilding always
bright and burnished on the judgment-scales of
her idol, even at the expense of a speck or two
on her own.

Once, and once only, our walking party, Miss
Chamberlayne at its head, came upon Miss
Davida and her worshipper, strolling in
Staddon-lane, or rather just turning into the lane
from that pretty miniature glen, where the
rivulet made an abrupt turn, as I said before,
round a point of grey rock, and the blackbirds
were for ever asking pleasant questions of one
another, and seemingly getting no answer. I
must premise that the rencontre took place
before Madame Huillier and her son went up to
lodge at Staddon Farm.and was, indeed, indirectly
the cause of that event. Miss Davida was, as
usual, perched on old Hector, but in an unwonted
and meditative attitude, the rein loose in one
drooping hand, and the stiff horn-handled whip
swaying in the other, while the green gauze
veil which should have shaded her features had
perversely turned round and meandered down
her back. Monsieur Victor seemed to have
gained all that she had lost in briskness.
His gait was more elastic, and his look far
less prim, than usual. We, sharp-eyed little
critics, saw at a glance, as they came upon
us, that our demure teacher, "Mr. Howly,"
was looking up earnestly into Miss Davida's
face, and that his right hand was helping hers
to guide poor Hector's flapping rein, although
they, on seeing us, instantly fell into a more
common-place position, and our discreet governess,
who, though deaf, was by no means blind,
after a passing bow of recognition to the pair,
turned into the glen they had just left, and so
placed her little troop in safety among the
harmless primroses and bluebells. But one
thing we saw—how could we help seeing it?—
in that brief passing glance, which set our
hearts fluttering with laughter, and our tongues
busily chattering in an under tone for the rest
of the walk. It was a straggling garland of
ivy and forget-me-nots—those fine large
turquoise-blue forget-me-nots we had gathered
so often where they sat dipping their feet in the
rivulet—wreathed carelessly round Monsieur
Huillier's rustic straw hat and ending in a
maze of stalks over his left ear, like the head-
gear of a certain picture of Vertumnus lightly
clothed in a green rag, which used to adorn our
Roman Mythology. No doubt Miss Davida's
hand had placed the flowers there, and they had
both forgotten the fact in the hurry of meeting
us, but the ridiculous incongruity of the adornment
was of course the only thing that caught
our fancy and set us laughing hours afterwards
with its comical remembrance.

Ah me! how often in these latter years, when
trying to live back for a moment into those
phases of feeling with which, in the old days, I
and my compeers in age were wont to regard any
symptom of great and unusual emotion, any
outward sign of mighty heart-quaking on the part of
our elders—how often, I say, have I had to
confess to myself that, after all, healthy childhood,
in its early portion at least simple, trustful,
innocent childhood—the poet's ideal of all that
is pure and good is but a soulless beautiful
shape, like the fair water-spirit of the German tale.
Pleasantly enough it wanders along the singing
summer land of its ignorance, where the heavy
branches of the awful tree of knowledge cast as
yet no shadow on the turf, and the red rose-leaves