"Look here, Tillotson. His own writing. It
was just when she was born. She was christened
Augusta, after one of the princesses. (Helen is
Helen Mecklenburga.) And I wrote to H.R.H.
the sailor Dook, as they called him, about giving
leave for that sort of thing—at least, to know
would they object. I was sitting at breakfast
one morning; she"  nodding at Mrs. Tilney,
"was not quite strong enough to get down as
yet, when this came in, just like any other letter
in the world. Here it is."  And he kept turning
a rather yellow and gilt-edged letter tenderly,
as if he expected it to fall to pieces. "You
see,"  holding it up to the light, "his hand-
writing. Read it. You may. No secrets." And
Mr. Tillotson read it. The date had been
mysteriously removed, or at least some one had
made it as uncertain as possible:

"Dear Tilney,— Call your child by any name
you like. Hope you are well.
                                         "Yours,
                                                  "WILLIAM."
"I am going to Portsmouth to-morrow. Hope
Mrs. T. is well over.                          "W."

"There!"  said Mr. Tilney, in admiration. "A
prince of the blood, and just like you or I—or
anybody else! There was no more conceit in
that man, or consciousness of the exalted position
which he filled, than there was in that—that—— "
said Mr. Tilney, puzzled for an illustration, and
seizing on the first that offered, "that paper-
cutter. Perhaps not so much."

He felt that this was scarcely a happy illustration.
So he took back his letter, and folded it
up. "He was always doing nice things of this
sort," he continued. "I could tell you a
hundred like them.  When he went, I can—tell
—you—Dick Tilney lost his best friend.  Augusta
was considered, when a child, very like one of
the princesses—odd, wasn't it ?—and having the
same name. That was very curious! They are
both remarkable girls; always in spirits. Listen
now. And yet, naturally, Augusta is serious—
so serious!  Look here, Tillotson," he added,
confidentially; "puts all that on for society, you
know. Much rather be melancholy; that is,
when I say melancholy, I mean be with her
books. God Almighty in his infinite goodness,
bless them both!" he added, with sacerdotal
fervour.

"Was Miss Ada christened after one of the
princesses?" asked Mr. Tillotson.

"To be sure. I forgot. God bless her too!"
said Mr. Tilney, feeling a sort of delicate reproof
in this question. "They are all good, you know.
But Augusta someway—I can't express it—but
you will understand. By the way, you don't mind
him," nodding at young Ross. "A little rough,
you know. Sit down here, Tillotson. I should
like to talk to you a little."

Mrs. Tilney, now out of work, and with
her head leaning back on the cushion, called
softly, "Mr. Tillotson," as if she had some news
to tell him. "Major Canby," she whispered
"has brought a new game, which he is going to
teach them. 'Cobblers,' I think he calls it."

Augusta now came over with a pack of cards
in her hand. Oh, Mr. Tillotson, you'll play
'Cobblers,' won't you?"

"No, no," he said, smiling. "I never
heard—— "

"Oh, Major Canby is to teach us all. He saw
it at Hadbury, Sir Thomas Groper's place."

"You know they played it there," said Major
Canby, delivering an explanatory lecture, "in a
different way. They were all at sea, you know,
when I told Lady Groper a few things, and she
said it made it quite a new game. And so it is."

"Oh, mamma," said Augusta, reproachfully,
"we must play it the way Major Canby said to
Lady Groper."

Mr. Tillotson then did not care to play. Miss
Ada was not asked (except by the gentlemen,
and with some anxiety), and the friend of
the late duke was asleep on his sofa, with a fallen
jaw, and a lank ghastly look, that once more
betrayed his age. Mr. Ross had gone away in
disgust to that "vile pipe," as Mrs. Tilney said.
Major Canby then began his lecture, and never
was lecturer so applauded. But he had one
"sad" pupil, who could understand and see
nothing unless by practical personal illustration,
the cards requiring to be shifted and taken out of
her hands by the lecturer, the laws of this game
pressing so cruelly on a tender and pretty
intellect.

Finally, brown sherry came in, and Mr.Tilney,
who seemed to detect its presence by instinct, as
camels know when they are near water, woke up,
and drew up his jaw. He then "tried" it— to see
that it was of the sort he wished to put down
before his guests.

"Try this,"  his voice was heard ringing
plaintively. "Try this, Still. Help yourself to
some of the old tap. Dear, dear. I could tell
you about the man from whose cellar I got this.
Such a story—story after story."

Mrs. Tilney interposed. Major Canby was
saying farewell.

"You'll keep a place for us, Major Canby—a
good place—at the cricket," said Augusta. "I
am dying to see cricket—real cricket, you know.
And, mamma, won't you ask Mr. Tillotson?"
she added, conscience telling her that there were
some arrears here to be made up.

"Nonsense," said Mr. Tilney. "To-morrow,
business—eh, Mr. Tillotson? We cannot have
that. All play and no work makes Jack, you
know. No, no," he added, with solemnity,
"pleasure first, then business, as much as you
like."

Not caring to set right this remarkable
inversion, Mr. Tillotson excused himself from the
cricket, and said, "Good night all." With the
departing military gentlemen, "the girls" and
Mr. Tilney were in a sort of riot of voices and
laughing at the humour of the facetious Canby.
The air was filled with female voices; they " died"