I shot down there one morning—hour and
a half from Waterloo Bridge. Pretty station,
rolling hills quite alive with the passing
shadows of clouds and glimpses of glancing
sunshine. Higher on a huge knoll, a big
mansion, like Aladdin's palace modernised;
and deep down in a valley among these hills
behind, intersecting green waves of trees, the
town, dotted white here and there with
villas and mosaicked on its edges with bright
green meadows, and red-dotted groups of cattle,
and whiter specks, which are sheep, and long
dark lines of Scotch firs, and broken banks of
rice-coloured sand. The Surrey hills, then, do
really exist? I had always thought they were
imaginings of London lodging-house keepers.

The town one long street, with grey hills
for its horizon.  Its pavement, a high terrace
on one side; a stationer (also a druggist), a
haberdasher, several inns, a tobacconist, and
wine-merchant, its most noticeable tenants.
The house-agents, two gentlemanly young
red-whiskered men exactly alike, and their father, a
pleasant rosy old man of a bygone age, portly
and courteous. They told me of a cottage on the
Downton-road, towards Oxberry-hill—five
bedrooms, rent forty-five pounds, gas laid on, good
supply of water, nice small garden, good
repair. Would I see it? Their clerk would get
the keys and show it me.

Off I went, and with good omens; sky blue,
day pleasant. Lizzy, perhaps here is to be our
nest. My dear Mrs. Masterman, perhaps I
may even yet appease you. About half a mile's
walk led us to the borders of Crayton. Past
builders' yards, past small suburban shops, past
gardens seen through grated doors, past schools
with noise and chatter oozing from every window,
past half country roadside inns, with sign,
trough, and outside benches, then up side-roads
encumbered with rubbish, and heaps and piles
of bricks, and preparations for building more
raw new houses, such as those that already
lined half the road.Then a pretty lane, and a
corner cottage, gable ended, Swiss as to its
wood-work, with a pretty projecting porch, and
a little high green platform of lawn.  I liked the
place at once; so bright, snug, and cheerful.

The smart boy from the auctioneer's reasoned
with the lock for a moment, then threw open
the front door. Yes, all good. Pretty hall,
two cheerful rooms, with gay but not vulgar
papers, handsome marble mantelpieces, high
square rooms with plenty of window. Yes, there
my bookcase could stand, there my chair,
there Lizzy's little fantasies and piano. Yes, it
would do. The bedrooms, too, were good, and
commanded fine views of the hills. Excellent
cellar, neat bath-room, useful kitchen. Only one
blotch on the paper in the drawing-room dimmed
its white and gold. What was that blotch?

A slight stoppage in the roof; spout where
the snow last January had lodged and worked
in. That should be at once put right—in
"perfect repair," was what the landlord, Mr.
Mosser, promised, and he was a man of his
word.  I think it was the lawn, after all, that
decided me; for, as Mrs. Masterman observes,
I am so unpractical a man. There was a charming
view from the lawn; a park across the lane,
on one side; before it, the town and the hills.

So I took the house, and proud I was when
Mrs. Masterman consented to come to stay six
weeks with us, and when I led Lizzy into the
house on our return from our honeymoon tour
in Switzerland.  We have been at Crayton now
two months, and we like it. The second day we
were there, the baker's man informed our
servant, to our great delight, that a nightingale
every year built in the ivy of the second elm from
the lamp at the corner of our road—the lamp, in
fact, that glimmers over the corner of our lawn.

We have since had reason to doubt the baker;
still the information gave us pleasure for the
time, and there was no reason to doubt it until
experience proved the contrary.  But our greatest
triumph was on the day of our arrival, when we
first saw four brawny grey horses emerge from
a cloud of dust and advance up the sandy lane
facing our house, straining every sinew, and
dragging after them the huge van stored with
our furniture. Then Lizzy and I felt that we
were housekeepers, and were launched into
life.  And so we were; and moreover we had
Mrs. Masterman in attendance, to guard us, as
she observed, "from a thousand deceptions."'
The chief feature of Crayton, for the first week,
seemed to be the perpetual whirling of tradesmen's
light carts to and from our door, and the
incessant calling of butchers and bakers for
orders.  But we hope to live through all this,
having Mrs. Masterman to take care of us.  I
like to be taken care of, and so does Lizzie.
But perhaps six weeks is rather a long while to
be taken care of, at one time.

THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NEVER FORGOTTEN."

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER XXIII. A REVELATION.

DURING these days it was noticed that Mr.
Tilney took to visiting Mrs. Tillotson a good
deal.  Latterly, however, he had fallen into a
habit of "dropping in" one night upon the
captain, another night upon Mrs. Tillotson.
With the captain, who always treated him as a
guest of grandeur and his visit as an exceeding
honour, he was welcomed with the familiar
decanter of sherry.  With Mrs. Tillotson
the same ceremony was repeated; but with
her he got into the habit of bemoaning himself
in an arm-chair, with his face turned to the
ceiling hopelessly. This dejection had reference
chiefly to gathering money difficulties, and
especially to what he called his "native home."

"See me here," he said, "dishonoured, I may
say, in my old age.  I have no place to lay my
grey hairs, that is, my head;"  for he was
conscious that the colour of his hair was brown.
"They hunt me like a hare. They do indeed.
The only thing I can compare it to is poor