where a rank of stately yews and cypresses,
representing the stalwart lacqueys who had once
kept aloof the tide of common humanity, shut
carefully out the vulgar little ivy-covered church,
to which were merely entrusted the marble
virtues and granite honours of the departed V. V.s.

The squire was a good squire; and, shunning
none of those mysterious responsibilities
wealth is supposed to bring, lived much among
his tenantry, and made his forty thousand a
year as serviceable to the interests of the land
and its cultivators, as his lights permitted. Of
course, he was in parliament— a back-bone
conservative, and— need it be added?— voted with
his diminishing party, like a man. Reports are
silent as to any oratorical display. Why? He
had a weakness so great as to be little short of
calamity— that of giving way to gusts of sudden
passion, terrible in their intensity, and rendered
more grievous to witness by the disproportion
to them of the exciting cause. These
paroxysms were fortunately very rare, and the
poor squire's subsequent remorse, not to
mention the profuse liberality with which he strove
to atone in some measure for the wrongs his
passion had inflicted, went far towards
reconciling those about him to the occasional
interruption of harmony.

Lady Geraldine was the only magician who
could control these paroxysms. This was not
by reason of her exalted rank. The squire had
no particular aversion to Vere-Vavasours and
made many of the race welcome to his halls; but
he saw no more in them than ordinary (sometimes
very ordinary) gentlemen, and treated
Jack Hornidge, whose genius resided
exclusively in a profound judgment of "beasts,"
with the same distinction that was paid to the
most illustrious of Lady Geraldine's lineage.

In the very height of the squire's fury, his
lady had been seen to raise her thin white
hand, without a word. As if stunned with the
dint of some fell weapon, her husband would
reel back, his hands unclenched, the fire dying
out of his eyes, the fierce invective faltering into
silence. None understood the spell, for even
Prussian blue has its virtues, and Lady Geraldine
suffered none to see that when, in lifting
her hand, the bracelet slid back, it revealed a
white scar. In the first passionate outburst
after their marriage, Hurbandine had seized
his wife's arm with such inconsiderate violence,
that her bracelet, unclasping, cut into the
delicate flesh, causing a painful wound and an
indelible scar. This was the remembrance that,
in moments of the most unreasoning fury,
could strike down the manly squire, shocked,
shamed, discomfited.

Hence was it that the Lady Geraldine, with
all her pride, was a favourite with those who
saw how promptly this soothing influence was
exercised, at need; and when it was the poor
lady's fate to become, as we have said, insane,
the loss of her benign interposition was felt by
not a few. For tempers are quick, in Wales,
and not even the respect due to a landlord
could always overcome the resentment excited by
that landlord's bearing, in his hurricanous rages.

We must hasten back to the party at the stile.

When the squire and his sons passed them,
as described, the younger, Rochford, had joined
in his sire's greeting, with the addition of a
rather saucy smile and a glance, a trifle more
prolonged than was absolutely necessary, at the
blushing Katy. As to his brother, he had
neither bowed nor looked, but strode haughtily
forward, hardly checked by his father's
momentary pause.

"Something wrong with squire again,"
remarked Mr. Taffey, moodily, as he turned away
"Wants a nail, somewheer. 'Tis Mr. Rochford,
I'm afeerd."

"Well, now, I don't think there's so much
harm in him," said Mrs. Taffey, on whose frank,
pleasant face an expression of reproach or
suspicion looked so little at home, that it was
instantly detected. "I declare to goodness,
no. A nicer-mannered, freer-spoken,
merrier-laughed——"

"Hallo! here's a bust of elokence!" ejaculated
Mr. Taffey, stopping short, the more
conveniently to admire the speaker. "Why,
Maggie, you've been a-borrerin of David
Apreece! You're a good creeter, and never
censers anybody. Consekently, when you has
to find fault, you doos it by praising thissen too
much, and saying nuthen, or less, o' that'n.
That's how / reads you," added Mr. Taffey,
triumphantly, for his one vanity was a (supposed)
gift of divining character. "And who is that'n?
Why, who coold it be, but Mr. Gerald? And
what's he done, for to offend you? That's how
/ reads it," concluded the worthy smith, with,
it must be owned, less point than usual, his
interrogative look proving that he did not read it
at all.

"I never said he done anything," replied his
wife; "I only said, Ed'ard, that a nicer-mannered,
freer-spoken, merrier-l——"

"I knows wot you said," retorted Mr. Taffey.
"Question is, wot you didn't say! Freer-spoken!
he's a— trot on, a little, Katy, my
pet— deuced deal too free with some of us,
specially such as weers caps and ribbings.
Merry! Course he is. 'Tis a joke to him;
that's how I reads it. He'd better take to
another line o' business, and not be hangings' much
about the village, turning the heads—— Did
you see your nice-mannered gent making eyes
at— at that'n?" (Mr. Taffey gulped
something, and shot out his brawny fist in the
direction of Katy's twinkling heels), ''making the
lass turn as red's a peony!"

"I saw it, but I'm not afeerd," said the
mother. "She don't like it. That's all."

"When I was young," observed Mr. Taffey,
"when a young 'oman turned as red's a rose,
she did like it."

"It's not him— Mr. Rochford. There!" said
his wife, "I outs with it. Why, you blessed old
babby! can't you see? It's Mr. Gerald!"

"Whe-ee-ew!" whistled the student of
character; "here's a kittle full! And very
hockard fishes they be. Coom, how is it all, old
'oman? Queer that I, as reads things quicker
than most, shouldn't have put my finger on