Warwickshire, had become known to Lucy
Mainfield, the only daugher of a widowed aunt of
his friend, with no fortune but her unequalled
beauty, and a fine, honest, open, and loving
disposition, which made an impression on
Arthur, perhaps, because it was in so many
respects in contrast with his own.

For some weeks their mode of life continued
unaltered. Study all the day, geology
and natural history in the evening. Their
path led very seldom through the village of
Combe-Warleigh; but, on one occasion, having
been a distant range among the wilds,
and being belated, they took a nearer course
homeward, and passed in front of the dwelling-
house of the squire. There was a light
in the windows on the drawing-room floor,
and the poetic Wilmington was attracted by
the sight.

"I've read of people," he said, "seeing the
shadows of beautiful girls on window-blinds,
and dying of their love, though never knowing
more of them,—wouldn't it be strange if
Squire Warleigh had returned, and with a
daughter young and beautiful, and if I saw
her form thrown clearly like a portrait on the
curtain, and—"

"But there's no curtain," interrupted
Arthur. "Come along."

"Ha, stop! " cried Wilmington, laying his
hand on Arthur's shoulder. ''Look there!"

They looked, and saw a girl who came
between them and the light, with long hair
falling over her shoulders, while she held a
straw hat in her hand; her dress was close-
fitting to her shape, a light pelisse of green
silk edged with red ribbons, such as we see as
the dress of young pedestrians in Sir Joshua's
early pictures.

"How beautiful," said Wilmington, in a
whisper. "She has been walking out. What
is she doing? Who is she? What is her
name?"

The apparition turned half round, and
revealed her features in profile. Her lips
seemed to move, she smiled very sweetly,
and then suddenly moved out of the sphere
of vision, and left Winnington still open-
mouthed, open-eyed, gazing towards the
window.

"A nice enough girl," said Arthur coldly;
"but come along; the old woman will be
anxious to get home; and besides, I am very
hungry."

"I shall never be hungry again," said
Winnington, still transfixed and immoveable.
"You may go if you like. Here I stay
in hopes of another view."

"Good night, then," replied Arthur, and
rapidly walked away.

How long the astonished Winnington
remained I cannot tell. It was late when he
arrived at the rectory. The old woman, as
Arthur had warned him, had gone home.
Arthur let him in.

"Well!" he enquired, "have you found
out the unknown?"

"All about her but for heaven's sake
some bread and cheese. Is there any here?"

"I thought you were never to be hungry
again."

"It is the body only which has these
requirements. My soul is satiated for ever.
Here's to Ellen Warleigh!"—he emptied the
cup at a draught.

"The Squire's daughter?"

"His only child. They have been abroad
for some years; returned a fortnight ago.
Her father and she live in that desolate
house."

"He will set about repairing it, I suppose,"
said Arthur.

"He can't. They are as poor as we are.
And I am glad of it," replied Wilmington,
going on with his bread and cheese.

"He has an immense estate," said Arthur,
almost to himself. "Combe-Warleigh must
consist of thousands of acres."

"Of heath and hill. Not worth three
hundred a-year. Besides, he was extravagant in
his youth. I met the shoemaker at the gate,
and he told me all about them. I wonder if
she's fond of butterflies," he added: "it
would be so delightful for us to hunt them
together."

"Nonsense, boy; finish your supper
and go to bed. Never trouble yourself
about whether a girl cares for butterflies
or not whose father has only three hundred
a year and has been extravagant in his
youth."

"What a wise fellow you are," said
Winnington, "about other people's affairs! How
many hundreds a year had Lucy's father?
Nothing but his curacy and a thousand
pounds he got with aunt Jane."

"But Lucy's very fond of butterflies, you
know, and that makes up for poverty," said
Arthur, with a laugh. "The only thing I
see valuable about them is their golden
wings."

The companions were not now so constantly
together as before. Their studies underwent
no change; but their evening occupations
were different. The geologist continued his
investigations among the hills; the naturalist
seemed to believe that the Papilio had
become a gregarious insect, and inhabited the
village. He was silent as to the result of his
pursuits, and brought very few specimens
home. But his disposition grew sweeter than
ever. His kindness to the drunken
shoemaker was extraordinary. His visits to
several old women in the hamlet were
frequent and long. What a good young man he
was! How attentive to the sick!—and he to
be only twenty-one! On the first Sunday of
the month he was in waiting at the door to
receive the rector. He took his horse from
him, and put it into the heap of ruins which
was called the stable with his own hands.
He went with him into the church. He
looked all the time of service at the Squire's
pew, but it was empty. He walked alongside