affairs on the first day; but towards noon on the
second day we saw a rainbow for one thing—
and, for another, two girlish figures on our walk,
dressed both alike in brown carmelite dresses,
brown carmelite jackets made loose to the
figure, and large brown salad-bowls for hats,
neatly trimmed with brown ribbons.

Anything more hideous it is impossible to
imagine. Whence had the frightful apparitions
come, and why did they haunt our only walk?
We had wished for girls, like the bad queens
in the fairy tales; but—we appealed to each
other—had we wished for such as these? We
both politely replied we had not, and
continued our observations at a safe distance.
"I'll tell you what," says Ted, after a short,
pause, "I'm blest if I'll yield up our walk to
them. If they don't like our being there, they
can do the other thing, and go off. But
Overcourt is not like London; aud if we give it up
to them, we shall have nowhere to go; besides,
even then we should meet at church."

Quite so. Always considerate, Ted is. I am
not virtuous myself, but I admire virtue in
others, particularly in Ted, and should think it
wicked to put any difficulties in his way, when
he is ready to sacrifice himself. So down we go
to the sea, under the delusion that we are going
to astonish them, even as they had astonished
us, though, we flattered ourselves, in a rather
different manner.

Not at all. They looked—not at us, but at
their hateful brown carmelites, very much as if
they didn't like them, and dexterously gave the
salad-bowl, which were doing service for hats,
a pull which made them, if anything, uglier than
they were before. But they took no more
notice of us than if we had been a couple of
caterpillars.

Very slowly we walk along (Ted putting on
his Regent-street airs), throwing less and less
expression into our eyes every time we pass
them. They are, or appear to be, utterly
unconscious of our presence.

I begin to think Ted's a most unmeaning
countenance.

So the morning passes, until it seems that we
are fated not to see their faces, they keep them
so religiously turned away. When suddenly the
wind, which had before been helping these girls,
now sides with us, and blows one of the salad-
bowls over the cliff into the sea.

And there is the damsel all forlorn. Such
a pretty girl, such a bright piquant little, face,
such a charming addition to Overcourt, which,
after all, is not so bad—under certain
conditions.

Need I say that I rushed frantically on to the
beach and secured the frightful hat, while Ted
stood staring helplessly above like an utter fool?
To those who know us I feel it must be quite
unnecessary to say so. But, perhaps it may
be as well to mention, that when I returned,
hat in hand, to the summit of the cliff, I found
Ted and the pretty girl as fast friends as it is
possible to become in three minutes and a half:
which indeed exceeds the time I was away.

She thanked me in a very steady little voice,
and in a set speech which I believe she had
composed during my absence.

Very sensible of her, too; anything must be
better than listening to Ted's drivellings. I
never saw such a fellow! Intelligent enough with
men, you have only to hand him over to a
woman, and he undergoes transformation,
appearing as idiotic as if be had been born a
downright fool. He always declares he wasn't. I
don't know. I should like to have asked his
mother.

We all say good-bye, for the little beauty
puts on her huge extinguisher (not a whit
uglier for having been in the water), and,
hiding as much of her pretty face as possible,
makes another set speech about "going home"
and "papa," and, giving me her hand at parting
(charming little girl, but she needn't have
given it to Ted—I am afraid she has not much
discernment), takes possession of her sister and
decamps, looking, the moment we lose her
bright face and pretty natural manners, as
preposterous a little figure as one could wish
to see.

"That's my style!" says Ted, with great
satisfaction, after watching her disappear in the
distance. "A jolly-looking girl, with a bright
good-tempered face, and eyes that look
straight at you with no sort of affectation of
shyness, yet without effrontery. Too simple-
minded for a coquette, too natural for a prude."

I remark, dryly, that that's my "style" too;
but Ted has become suddenly deaf, and doesn't
hear me. We agree, however, that Overcourt
improves on acquaintance, and each of us has
serious thoughts of visiting it again next year.

       The king of Spain's daughter came to visit me,
        And all for the sake of my little nut-tree.

The next day she dawns again upon our
horizon—with papa this time as a horrid cloud
to play propriety—and with the little sister, who
is also very pretty, but somehow not so taking,
not so piquant and original. My little beauty
has been going in for personal adornments.
The curly brown hair is all tied up with a long
blue ribbon to match her eyes, and floats upon
the brown carmelite; the salad-bowl is in
shape again, even though the shape is atrocious,
and is trimmed with blue ribbons like those in
her hair.

The little lady is not troubled with shyness;
she introduces us to "papa," who doesn't
even pretend to look glad to know us, but
remarks à propos of nothing, unless, indeed, it
be the blinding glare of the sun upon the cliffs,
that he thinks ''it is going to rain."

We tell him we don't, both politely, of course,
but both at the same time, so that it is quite
impossible for him to hear either of us, which,
his pretty daughter perceiving, looks wickedly
up at me.

Very foolish of her, if she had only known it.
I can never answer for myself what I may or
may not do with a pretty girl glancing up at me
with innocent blue eyes curiously sparkling