" I will wait till your dinner hour ; but I
really hope I don't incommode you."

"Not in the least. That is one of the artificial
methods, of saying you are sorry you came.
I tell you you will not be sorry after an hour
or two. Come in! I will introduce you to
my father."

They entered the low porch, traversed the
narrow passage, and, passing through a low
door, found themselves in the kitchen. At
the side of the fire-place, sat an old man with
spectacles on nose, intent on a large book.

"Father!" said Winterton, "here is my
friend, Lord Normandale, come to see us;
you'll make him welcome for my sake, till
you learn to like him for his own."

" Ah! my lord," said the old man, rising
and taking his visitor's hand, " it is many
years since I heard the name of Normandale,
except from Frederick since he went to
college. There is a sound in it that recalls
many thoughts. How strange!" he added,
as the sunshine fell on the young noble's face,
"will those likenesses never wear out! But
you are welcome, doubly welcome. Is Effy
returned from market?"

"You 've conjured her," said Frederick,
"by naming her name. This moment she is
dismounting in the yard. She's here."

The door opened, and the same person who
had overtaken Normandale on the road
entered the kitchen. She wore still the
scarlet cloak which had attracted his notice,
and carried the basket on her arm. The veil
was lifted up, and never had Normandale
seen so radiantly beautiful a face. It was
the face of his friend Frederick, softened into
feminine loveliness, and presenting all the
expression of high intellect and exquisite
refinement which made his appearance so
remarkable.

"So, you be here afore I," she said to
Normandale, without waiting for the ceremony
of introduction. " You do ply your
pins to good purpose, for I didn't stay ten
minutes at Bill Cookson's, and trotted Jobler
every yard o' the way. And how be ye,
father? I've brought ye such prime beef,
and only fippence a pound."

Lord Normandale bowed, and remained
silent. Winterton seemed not at all astonished
at the brusquerie of his sister's manner, and
the old gentleman looked at her with a
benevolent smile.

"You've done excellent well," he said,
"and now put it before the fire, and see that
it is well roasted in time for our dinner at
two."

She laid the basket on the floor, and lifting
up the cloth, discovered a large joint all ready
for the spit.

"I've heerd say," she said, " that folks
always like best what they cook theirselves.
Perhaps if you gave the spit a turn, the meat
would be all the better."

"With all my heart," said the young noble;
and a minute more saw him busy watching
the motions of the beef, and basting it
with a long pewter spoon. Meanwhile, his
beautiful companion was engaged in preparing
the plates, boiling vegetables, laying the
cloth in the parlour, and in all ways conducting
herself like a maid-of-all-work. But,
her step was like a fawn's ; her figure, graceful
beyond the reach of art; and the turn
of her arms and fall of her shoulders, were
such as would put to shame the colder
beauties of the Medicean statue. Her smile
was irresistible ; and in spite of the rustic
language in which she expressed herself, there
was so much sense, so much humour, so
much mystery, in her conversation, that Lord
Normandale never felt so happy in his life, as
when he sat, hour after hour, watching her
charming movements, and listening to the
tones of a voice which in his ear was musical
as is Apollo's lute. If he forgot for a
moment to baste the now rapidly browning meat,
he was reprimanded with such sharpness and
real objurgation, that it required him to look
at the lovely lips from which the scolding
proceeded, to reconcile him to the assaults he
sustained.

When all was ready, the old gentleman
rose from his book. Frederick re-descended
from the roof where he had resumed his
work, when Normandale commenced his
cooking operations. Euphemia instructed
her assistant in the art of laying the dishes
on the table; and the gentlemen, when duly
summoned to take their places, proceeded
to the little parlour. The fair spirit who
had ministered to them, however, had
disappeared. The father said grace, and began
the repast; and Normandale was sunk in
grief at being deprived of the society of the
fair cuisinière.

"Effie will be here in five minutes," said
Winterton; " make no remark on the scene
that has past. She doesn't like to be
reminded of her morning's occupations." The
door opened, and a figure walked into the
apartment, which at once absorbed the
visitor's attention, and nearly deprived him
of breath. On the coiled up hair of the
young maiden who now joined the circle, was
a wreath of red and white roses; her shoulders
were bare; and over them hung a scarf of the
richest lace — a material with which her pink
silk gown was profusely ornamented. She
carried a fan in her hand; and with a start
of surprise, Normandale caught the calm
and thoughtful expression of her eye. It
reminded him of a portrait in his gallery, of his
aunt, the unhappy Marchioness of Bartondyke,
the loveliest woman of her time, and in
her fate the most miserable. He stood up
and bowed. The lady returned his courtesy,
and kissing her father's cheek, sat down at
his right hand without any observation.

"Restored to me for the rest of the day,
my darling?" said the father; " to be my
companion, my entertainer, my charmer?"

"Yes, father! I have strung the harp, and