in its interest, and whose sketch of it arrived
at the dignity of an engraving. I can still
see dear little Cyril leap into the air, waving
his tiny fist in congratulation.

I have said that this contest, besides its
public importance, issued in momentous
results to ourselves. The first of these—I may
as well tell it at once, as you would never
guess it—was Lady Naseby's first visit to my
parents. Our terrace probably commanded
a better and more convenient view of the
river than any spot near the town. So keen
and general was the desire to witness the
steam-race, that the Countess herself, it was
hinted to my father, might possibly be won
to honour him with her presence.

Dr. Woodford's reception of this news,
though rather stately, was, it seems,
sufficiently courteous. The due formalities were
exchanged between the castle and ourselves,
and on the eventful morning the Countess
actually arrived. Cyril and I had lain awake
hours the night before, speculating upon her
dress and retinue. We fully expected that
she would be preceded by mediæval horsemen
with banners and trumpets—that she
would wear a coronet and velvet robe, and
that her train would be borne by pages in
white satin. No doubt it was a momentary
disappointment to see a young lady—she
seemed young to our unpractised eyes—
attired in the simplest fashion of the times.

She was in slight mourning for some
distant relative, and her dress—a lavender
ground intersected with narrow stripes of
black—set off admirably the extreme fairness
of her complexion. Our brief regret at her
simple attire was soon lost in the undefinable
charm of the wearer. Her manner to my
father would have convinced you that one of
her chief ends in life had been realised in his
acquaintance; and her smiling reluctance to
sit until my mother consented to take the
cushion next her on the estrade, won our
hearts at once. She addressed a question to
me, at which I stammered and blushed, not
from absolute shyness, but because I had
fairly forgotten the meaning of her words in
their music. She then held out her hand to
Cyril, toyed admiringly with his light golden
curls, and made him share her hassock, with
a foot so captivating in its chaussure of black
silk and morocco, that it seemed quite
impossible it could ever have trampled upon
hearts in the unfeeling way ascribed to it by
report. Censorious people might call Lady
Naseby a flirt, and say that she cared only
for excitement, for archery-meetings, races,
and private theatricals. To us this was as
libellous as the assertion by the same
authorities that she was forty, and that her
courtesy to my father arose from motives
connected with the approaching election for
the shire.

My mother judged very differently from
these slanderers when the Countess, on taking
leave, hoped that she would think well
enough of the owner of Naseby to trust
herself within its walls. She must come to
luncheon, the Countess insisted, some early
day, and she would of course bring with her
the Fair One with the Golden Locks. So,
with some slight confusion as to sex, the
peeress had designated Cyril. As to Cyril
himself, she hoped he had already found that
Lady Naseby was not so terrible a person.
She assured him that she was not married to
any of those naughty giants of whom he had
doubtless read. On the contrary—here she
gave her hand to my father—she was a very
timid person: too timid almost to ask a
person of learning and thought like him to
waste an hour with her in the beech-groves
of Naseby. Still, philosophers were
sometimes benevolent, and might not deem the
time wasted that conferred pleasure. She
would not, therefore, quite despair, &c. &c.

Think of all this said to my poor tabooed
father by such a person and in such a
presence—for my mother had thought it
courteous to Lady Naseby to provide seats
for Mrs. Colonel Massingham, the banker,
the vicar, and several others known at the
Hall;—think of all this, I say, and you may
guess why it was so hard for Mrs. Woodford
to keep in her tears.

As the Countess glided into her carriage,
even my father's look of calm politeness
seemed softening into pleasant emotion; but
the feeling was arrested midway, and changed
into a mournful smile. Better than his wife
he knew the game of the world and the value
of its counters.

From that hour, however, Doctor
Woodford's position in our town was singularly
changed. His religious doubts, before branded
as presumptuous, were now lamented as
unfortunate. Before, he had been a sceptic,
now he was an inquirer. The policy had
once been to denounce him; but the vicar
now observed over his whist, that true
Christianity should appeal to the erring by
kindness and persuasion, rather than by
invective. It was curious, however, that my
father alone reaped the benefit of this
enlightened view. We had other doubters
in the town—men of no great worldly
importance—whose difficulties were less
tenderly handled. I was perplexed then to
know why my father's absence from church
should excite only a kind of sentimental
interest, while the same habit in Mr.
Skipworth the druggist, and Mr. Speers the
metaphysical schoolmaster, exposed them to
fierce reproaches and loss of patronage. I
am afraid I could give the reason now.

Invitations to my parents began to
multiply. Their acquaintance was desired by our
best families. The impulse of both my father
and my mother regarded separately, would
have led them to preserve their secluded
course of life. But the wife hoped to dispel
her husband's pensive reveries by a social
stimulus; and he was anxious, on his part, that