responded the lady addressed. "If you means to
ast me, woold I marry again? then I makes
anser that I've turned it over in my mind—and
my conclusion sire, I woold. It was my dear
husband's last wishes and words. 'Barbary,' he
ses, squeedgin' my hand, 'I han't selfige, marry
again—marry whensoever you're ast to. If
you could make fifty men as 'appy as you've
made me, why, make 'em. Don't marry a
baker, nor don't ha' nothin' to say to a night-
porter. Has to a pleaseman—cut 'im dead. It
makes unregular hours. To 'ave your husband
breakfasting when you're at supper, and wisey-
worsey, is far from comforrable. I should prefer
my old perfession. Adoo,' which," added the
good lady, wiping her eyes, "he were a hare-
dresher."

"A what, ma'am?" asked Dolly.

"Cut and dressed 'air," explained Mrs. Turnover.
"Yes, sich was his conclusive obserwations"
(Mr. Turnover's final remarks, as reported
by his lady, might have filled a moderate
volume), "and sich, ladies, is my feelins. I'm
in no hurry, but if master marries anybody as
isn't—isn't to my mind—as I'm very much
afeerd indeed he will—then I don't mind sayin'
that I should except the first respeckful offer as
is made me. Where's Esther got to?"

"What pictur's that, she's looking at so
long?" asked the dairymaid.

Mrs. Turnover waddled a little way in the
direction of her niece, and came back laughing.

"It's the pictur of master, took by Sir
Philip's orders, three year ago. It was hung in
that dark corner, 'cause it looked so new. She
thinks it's one of them old Goslings. We won't
tell her yet."

As they approached, the girl started from her
reverie.

"Aunt, aunt, who was this? If ever there
were a real hero Gosling, here he is! Tell me,
tell me quickly, something about him. Soldier?
Statesman? Poet? He must have been one of
these; What a brow! And oh, what expression!"
continued Esther, clasping her hands in a sort
of rapture. "Dear, brave eyes! you look as if
everything vile, pitiful, dishonest, must wither
up before you! Aunt, look you, I would trust
this man before the whole world. Look at that
mouth, sweet, yet resolute. Strong will, too.
I should not like to argue with you, Sir George
de Gosling, if that be your name. For, in the
first place, I know you would be in the right;
and, in the second, that you would invariably
get your way. If ever I loved man, it would
be you!"

"My dear, my dear!" said Mrs. Turnover
hastily. "Remember, you are talking to a
young gentleman!"

"To a young gentleman who flourished only
five centuries ago," said Esther, smiling. And
she pointed to a date "1370" scratched on the
frame.

"That's master's mischief, now!" said Mrs.
Turnover, aside to Dolly. "I remember his
saying he wouldn't be the only live 'un of the
lot, and I see him, one day, scratching with his
knife on the pictur-frame."

"That's the beauty of it, aunt," said the
pretty Esther, saucily. "I can say just exactly
what I please to this dear darling of my heart,
and not be forward at all! I could, should, and
would, have loved him, if I had flourished in his
time. Do you hear that, sir? And, if he had
loved me back, I would have been the most
devoted wife that ever Gosling married. I do
think he's smiling, as if he understood and
believed it."

"What upon earth is the girl talking about?"
began her perplexed aunt. But she was
interrupted by an exclamation from the housemaid,
who was at the window.

"Here's somebody galloping up the avenue!"
answered the latter.

Mrs. Turnover waddled up.

"Gracious me, if it ain't master! Why, he
said he shouldn't be home to dinner. Perhaps
he's only rode back to dress—he do sometimes.
Come along, Esther dear. La'! how he's
a-tearin' along! Where's Mr. Fanshaw? Oh,
he's out, I know. Gertrude, call William—or
you, Dolly—quick!"

"William's run over to the village," said
Dolly.

"Then Gertrude must stay and open the
door," said the cook.

But Gertrude had disappeared.

"Dolly, Dolly! You must," said Mrs.
Turnover.

"I! I dursent," said the shy dairymaid.

The horse's trampling was now heard, and
presently a violent tug at the hall bell.

"What shall I do?" cried Mrs. Turnover.
"Wherever are all the men?"

"Why not open the door yourself, dear?"
suggested Esther, quietly.

"I can't do it, this figure," returned her
aunt, struggling with her apron-strings. "You
go, child." (Here there was another peal.)
"Hark! What a flurry he be in!"

"I?" said Esther.

"Yes, you. 'Tis the 'riginal of the very pictur
you was looking at. Master hisself."

"What?" ejaculated Esther, becoming
scarlet. "But the—the date."

"That he done hisself."

"Aunt, do you call this a joke?" said Esther,
hiding her burning face in her hands.

"Nonsense, dear! Run you and open the
door."

"Not if he stood there till his feet grew into
the stones," returned the girl, haughtily; and
with the step of a queen she quitted the hall.

Mrs. Turnover opened the door.

           Now ready, in One Volume, post 8vo,
               AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE.
       London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.