and Orson come out, bare-headed and bowing,
and receive her ladyship's orders. Mr.
Valentine is quite a gentleman; he has grayish
hair, standing upright all over his head, and
very white shirt cuffs, always turned back
over his coat-sleeves, and he is most stately
and polite in his manners. When we go to
his shop he always puts chairs for us, and
bows quite low; but Mr. Orson looks as if
he was laughing, and thinking one very
poor, and very impertinent for coming to buy
things of him. He is so disagreeable; he
looks at one's cotton gown, and old cloak,
and says, "Can we show you any French
shawls to-day, ma'am? just fresh from Paris.
Or any silks? We have some beautiful
Lyons silks, ma'am, very cheap—twelve
guineas the dress." Miss Oldtown says, "Oh,
thank you, not to-day. Another time!" and
we get up quite nervous, and are sure to
tread on each other's dress, or on somebody
else's toes, and to stumble out of the shop
awkwardly—quite hot and flurried. It is
astonishing and delightful to see how cool
and composed Lady Proudleigh is with him.
Miss Oldtown and I like to see her, and we
wonder at her nerve and her courage, and
her grand off-hand manner, as if she cared no
more for Mr. Valentine, or Mr. Orson either,
than for a fly or a pea. Then they step
backwards into the shop; the footman
jumps up behind again; the coachman waves
his whip; the horses, that have stood for
five minutes like statues, suddenly start
into life and dash away. What a fine thing
it is to have a big barouche!

Well, after this, very often there is a great
commotion, a groom gallops up to the organ-
man, and roars out to him to stop his noise; and
chases a boy with a wheelbarrow into a side-
street; and we see Miss Bixley coming, on her
chestnut horse, that always will dance all down
the street on the foot-pavement, to the terror
of all the mothers in the neighbourhood. I
do not envy her.

On Sunday mornings our street is very
quiet indeed, until the bells begin to ring for
church; and then, by degrees, it fills. The
few people who frequent distant churches
start first; those who patronise nearer
preachers next set out; and, last of all, we,
St. Johnites, issue forth, and then the street
swarms like an ant-walk. After service, as
we step home, we meet hasty figures rushing
from the bakers', with smoking joints and
puddings in their hands. Then, there is peace
for a time; but, as soon as the eatables are
demolished, out come all our neighbours
again. There are no carriages now, as on
week-days, and no carts, as on Saturday
nights; nothing but people, people, people,
streaming towards a strawberry-garden, a
mile out of town; nothing but artisans and
workmen of all sorts, with their wives and
babies, idling along like gentlemen at large,
scarcely knowing what to do with their
hands. What a wonderful state of things!

Then, too, we observe a number of young
ladies, in muslin dresses, and black silk-
cloaks, and straw-bonnets trimmed quite in
the fashion, I assure you; and these are
Susan and the maids-of-all-work. The children,
too, are not sent on errands to-day, but
walk out ceremoniously with their parents in
a state of dress that is positively dazzling,
even to themselves.

By-and-by, Susan's father and mother
arrive, to take charge of the house; for
Susan has a half-holiday, and we are going
out for a country walk. They are very old,
and so deaf, that, once out of the house, I am
sure we should never be able to gain admittance
into it again, if we did not take the key
with us. Then we walk to the little village
of Brooklyn, through the still and golden
evening light that makes the hills look so
soft and misty. We often turn to look at them
as we stroll up the steep lane, by the Rectory
garden, to the ancient little church. It is a
very sweet and peaceful spot, and the rooks,
circling round the ivy-covered tower, are
cawing an accompaniment to the pleasant
bells. How quiet everything is here! The
clergyman mounts into the pulpit, and I
rejoice to see such a good and kind face there.
The wind sighs gently among the trees,
changing the shadows on the foot-worn
pavement, over which many generations have
passed, and we are passing, to death. We
look up at the clergyman, whose white hair
stirs in the breeze; he lays his hand on the
book, looking kindly round upon us, to include
us all, and addresses us all personally, and
begins. There is not a word of controversy
in his sermon. It is very simple; all about
kindness, and charity, and tender-heartedness,
and the pleasant duty of loving one
another; and the preacher's voice is full of
earnestness and sincerity, and his face of
kindness and benevolence. We depart from
the little church inexpressibly soothed and
calm, and peacefully happy. The current of
our ideas is changed; we no longer think of
our street and its sights; of our little vanities
and vyings. Our hearts smite us for not
having been to see Susan's old aunt in the
village, and we go and see her the moment
after leaving the church. She is sitting
alone, with spectacles on nose, and a Bible
on her knees, and is so pleased to see
us! We tell her all about the sermon,
and she says it does her heart good. Then
we walk briskly home, and the night steals
on by imperceptible degrees. Standing by
the window, I am surprised to see, so soon,
as it appears to me, lamp after lamp throw
out red rays on the smart clothes, and weary
homeward-bound figures which pass beneath
them, until not one remains unlit up and
down our street. At ten o'clock all is quiet
and silent. There are no lights in the
windows; the stars look coldly down upon
us, and must think it a very dull prospect
indeed. Every High Streetite is in bed; and