a turn through the valley, enriching and
gladdening it. This river is our pride and boast.
Part of the village is on one side, part on the
other. The two are connected by an old-fashioned
substantial wooden bridge, which is never without
a passenger on it.

Our modest little house looks down from a
tiny eminence on this bridge. Opposite to us,
on the other side of the river, is the grand
palatial residence of the squire. It is in form
like the letter H, and one side matches the other
side: which to my mind is very ridiculous. The
Hall is so large, and so conspicuous, and has
such big windows, that we can almost see
every thing that goes on there. But the squire
can only just perceive the gable end of our cottage
through the trees, so, as I say to Robert, "We
have something that the squire has not."

"Don't be envious of the squire, Patty. I
have got something more, that he has not, and
that is a good wife."

Now, to be sure, it was a sad thing, not only
for himself, but for all the world about us, that
the squire was unmarried. It would make such
a difference to the poor, as well as to the rich, to
have a sweet amiable happy lady at the Hall.
Yet, much as it was to be desired that the squire
should marry, never had my match-making
propensities dared to interest themselves in him.
As to being so presumptuous as to try and
match the squire—my goodness me!

Nevertheless, it was a thousand pities he did
not marry. Mrs. Mountjoy, our vicar's wife,
mourned over the melancholy fact that there was
no squire's lady to visit the schools and
dispense the prizes. The vicar thought it sad to
see the great family pew occupied Sunday after
Sunday only by that single tall, somewhat grim-
visaged, man. For that was the fact. Our poor
squire, with a kind heart, neighbourly feelings,
and plenty of unused affections, was grim
outwardly. Tall and well proportioned, he yet was
nervous and fidgety: so was always awkward
and uncomfortable. With a great big chest, he
had a weak quavering voice that was evidently a
false one, as if he were afraid to use his real one
lest it should startle and shock people with its
power and strength. Had he been a poor man
he would have been a healthy happy natural
honest-hearted creature. As it was, an only
son, brought up say injudiciously, he was shy,
reserved, fearful, and seemed to nave a natural
horror of all human beings.

Every now and then, by an extreme effort on
his part, he gave us all a great stately dinner
at which we had the satisfaction of dining off
plate, though we hardly dared open our lips.
He gave us the invitation because he thought
it his duty to do so, and we accepted it because
we thought it our duty to do so. The moment
of meeting was dreaded by all of us, the time for
parting was happiness to all of us. We ladies
after leaving the dinner-room, moped in the big
drawing-room, whispering to each other. The
gentlemen crept in by degrees; and the only
alacrity shown was in ordering our carriages to
go home.

Our cottage was surrounded by a verandah.
It was my wont to sit, screened by a great
myrtle, and work there. The myrtle shut me
from the world. I saw all the world, and
especially the bridge, through the myrtle.

One day I saw two strangers loiter on the
bridge: an old man and a young girl. The old
man left the supporting arm of the girl, and
crossed feebly to the other side of the bridge;
she was dropping the petals of a rose into the
water, and watching them float away. At that
moment, on to the bridge dashed the squire's
carriage.

How is it that meek and quiet men have
imperious and haughty servants? When we
dined at the Hall, the servants gave us the
impression that nothing short of their master's
absolute commands made them take the trouble
of handing us anything. The old housekeeper,
attended by a maid carrying two candles, offered
us a chamber in which to arrange our toilets
(some of us walked to dinner) with an air
that wholly forbad our entertaining the idea.
Better go to dinner with one's cap awry.

Thus, the coachman, adopting the habits
of the rest, was accustomed to drive his master
with a reckless defiance of the idea of the
possibility of the road being required for any
other person, that made the villagers fly before it.
And, in a moment, before the young girl could
turn round, the carriage had knocked down and
driven over the old man.

I rushed down to the bridge without any
shawl or bonnet. When I got there, the squire's
carriage had stopped, and the squire was assisting
the young girl to help the old gentleman up.

Without her being pretty, there was something
so sweet, so artless, so wonderfully tender,
in the young girl's manner as she moved and
spoke, that I was instantly taken by her.

By a great mercy, the old man seemed not
dangerously hurt; that is, he was quite sensible,
and able to assure the girl that she might calm
her fears. But his leg was broken. That we all
saw at once. He was a traveller, merely passing
through the country. Where was he to go?
What could we do with him? The village inn
was by no means good enough. The squire
seemed to have forgotten he had a house, and
so I offered our house.

The squire jumped at the idea; he called
his carriage, bade his imperious footman help
him to place the old gentleman within it, and
walked himself at the head of his imperious
horses, as if that were the only way to make
his imperious coachman drive at a foot's pace.

We soon reached the cottage. There all
these imperious creatures had to wait, after
going for Dr. Leech, then for Mr. Bellenden
to assist Dr. Leech, until the old gentleman
was not only safe in bed, but had expressed
himself as "comfortable, extremely comfortable;"
which was as much as one could expect
from a person with a broken leg. Finally,
prancing at the idea they would no longer be
polluted by doing any other business than that
of their master, the imperious horses and