after relieving his vexation by venting some of
it on Mrs. Waterman, he went out hastily to see
his lawyer, who lived up in the Close. As he
was passing up in this direction, he saw a
pastrycook's boy with a large tray upon his
head covered with delicacies, and, above all,
with an extinguisher-shaped Italian cake, which
nodded solemnly as its bearer walked along and
sang.

"Some of those fat canons," said Mr. Waterman,
who was a dissenter. "They think more
of feasting their bodies than of looking after
other people's souls." And, stopping at the
turn to see at which of the "fat canons'" the
boy left his delicacies, "It's Boxer," he
thought, "or Wilcox. No. By——" he
added, as the boy gaily turned into the green
gate.

There were trees in the way, and he got
behind one of these, and he saw the door
cautiously open, and Mr. Tilney, in a dressing-
gown, take them in himself. Then he drew near,
very cautiously, and peeped in. The window
was open, and disclosed an interior of surprising
freshness and coolness. There was almost an
air of ice and of shade, as if this was a tropical
country. Mr. Tilney had carefully kept the
blinds down all day. Out of the shade Mr.
Waterman could see the rich colours of the
flowers—the green and the crimson—the cloth
that all but glistened, the glass that sparkled.
Perhaps it was the inviting nature of the whole
sight that inflamed Mr. Waterman. Losses of
late—that "miss" of the prime beasts at the
fair, purchased by a rival at an enormous
advantage—the loss about which he was now
going to his attorney—above all, the detection
of the unhappy baskets at the railway (always
considered in the trade a sneaking and
unworthy device)—set him in the worst possible
humour.

"I'll not be put on by an old swindling
jockey of that sort. I'm a poor man, and not
to be paying for his high feeds." And when
he had done his business with his lawyer, he
asked for a certain bill of sale over certain
property, furniture, &c., which had been given to
him as a security.

"As pretty a little table as was ever laid
out," said Mr. Tilney, standing at the door in
great admiration. "A touch does it—a light,
trained hand, Ada, dear. Just look! Now,
isn't it time to get ready, good child? Somehow
I have not found you out before so much as I
ought, but now I will try and know you better;
it isn't too late yet. Go and make yourself as
beautiful as ever you can. Why shouldn't
you have your chance? And, indeed," he
added, reflectively, "with that lovely hair of
yours——"

She went up gaily as she was told, and
dressed in white, as was her usual habit. She
was not long, and was, as might be expected,
down the first. The three—mother and two
daughters—had begun with the morning, and
were even now terribly pressed for time. Their
feet were heard pattering overhead, and the
bedroom doors were clapped to like minute-
guns.

Ada was below, flitting about softly, busy
with some final matters. She passed from the
parlour to the drawing-room, thought of
something that had been forgotten, and passed in
again. As she opened the door to cross the
hall on the last of these little missions, she
became conscious of dark shadows, as if the door
had been shut, and started back as she found
that two rough, ungainly men, with sticks, were
standing there. She had never known, never
seen, never read of even, the marks and tokens
of the calling which these men pursued; yet, as
she looked at their almost theatrically-countryman-
air, her heart grew cold within her, and it
was in a faint trembling voice that she asked
them whom they wanted.

They were dazzled by her snowy dress, her
brilliant face, and answered, with as much
confusion as they were ever subject to, that it
was Mr. Tilney they wanted, and would she
get him down.

"What can you want with him?" said she,
clasping her hands. "O, go away, do! Not
to-night; come again in the morning—do!"

They shook their heads.

"That couldn't be, miss," they said. "We
must have him, according to orders."

Trembling, almost fainting, she caught at the
banister and stared at these dreadful ministers.
Ministers—one in a white coat, another with
a dash of vermilion about his neck. In these
country districts they keep up the traditional
costume. She stood looking at them, afraid to
move, to speak. They were smoothing down
their hair uncomfortably. Suddenly a head and
chest were put over the stairs. Mr. Tilney—
poor old courtier! often he had said he had
been "hunted like a hare," but the end of the
hunt was now at hand—had got as far as his
waistcoat and high white neckcloth, when he
heard the voices. He hastily slipped into the
blue coat with the gilt buttons, and hurried
down.

"Is that the ice?" he said, over the stairs.
"Should have been here before;" then began to
come down. As he turned the corner he came
in view of the group, and he stopped, stiff and
rigid—more rigid than the white neckerchief he
wore. That fatal costume told him the story at
once. "What's this?" he said, in a thick
choking voice. "What do you want?"

They made a step forward. She ran to him,
and put her arms upon his shoulders and her
face to his.

"O, don't mind," she said, for with terror
she saw his stiffening eyes—"don't take it to
heart; it will all be well again."

"Hush!" he said, in the same thick tone,
and coming down slowly and with difficulty.
"Go away to your room. Leave me to talk with
these gentlemen. Good, kind child," he added,
pressing her hand, "go."

As he turned to enter the room, his feet
seemed to give way, and he slid down quite
gently on the ground. She thought he had