either beggars or brigands—dressed in
tight-fitting jackets, and short red petticoats, and
wide-awake hats with feathers on their heads,
flitted to and fro, carrying baskets on their
arms, and glittering scissors in their hands,
and disappeared and appeared again through
the greenhouse door.

"Florists," said Uncle Sam, "cuttings of
geraniums, and planting out the potted
myrtles; flowers of all hues. What a pleasant
place! What figures for horsemanship
and Swiss gardeners' daughters! I wonder
who they are? But come along, here's a
nice breeze. Our flies are all in order, and
here goes for the first throw."

But Vincent did not care for fishing. As
soon as he saw his uncle fairly engaged, he
laid his rod quietly on the ground, and
strolled downwards towards the bridge; and,
by crossing it into a village lane, he obtained
a side view of the little park, and also got a
little nearer to the mansion. It certainly
was the most captivating place he had ever
seen, and the activity of the wide-awakes and
baskets still continued. He still saw two
fairy little forms tripping into the greenhouse,
or disappearing through the garden
wall. The particular features he could not
discern; only the shapes and motions were
distinguishable. But they were young—they
stept so airily; and pretty—they carried their
broad-brims so jauntily. Altogether he had
an immense inclination to examine them
more closely, and see if in face and figure
they answered to the beauty of the situation
and the poetical elegance of the work they
were employed on.

Suddenly some change took place in their
occupation. The girl in pink ribbons rushed
towards the girl in blue, pointed with great
animation to the avenue; up which slowly
advanced a four wheel, driven by a gentleman
in a vast body-coat and a white hat, by
whose side sat a grey mantle bolt upright
and very majestic. Pink-ribbons threw
something she took from her bosom into the
basket on Blue-ribbons' arm, hurried into
the greenhouse, and was, though lost to
sight, to memory dear. Vincent was astonished
and intensely interested. What was the
meaning of her impassioned motion of the
hand? What was it she threw into the
basket? What connection was there between
the whole scene and the respectable old fogie
in the white beaver who was labouring up
the approach, or the grey vestal who was his
companion? Blue-ribbons paused for a
moment, looked towards the advancing
vehicle and ran to the garden door. In another
moment, with a spade in her hand, she
returned to the lawn, but glided among the
bushes, and, trying to conceal her retreat,
stooped her head below the hedge, and
rapidly made her way towards the
plantation at the wide of the road where Mr.
Willis had taken his station. A slight exertion
placed him on the inside of the fence,
and the better to command a view of what
was going on, he clambered up an ivy-covered
old elm, and sat like a wild man of the woods
on the first fork of the tree.

O, if his neighbours at Barcombe had
known what he was doing, what a different
notion they would have had of the manner
in which the Squire spent his time! Bill
Joyce expected him to be at Tattersall's.
Katy Herbert, the new Rector's daughter,
belived he was waltzing with a countess
at an aristocratic fête at Cremorne. Mr.
Motts, his principal tenant, thought he
was presiding at a cattle-show—and he
really was about twelve feet from the
ground, hiding in an old tree, and almost
hearing his heart beat with the expectation
of what was to come. For what did he see?
Blue-ribbons came in a straight line to where
he was placed. As she drew near, he saw
her more dinstinctly; and the more distinctly
he saw her, the more beautiful she appeared.
A graceful figure, flexible and light; a
charming face; blue eyes, brown hair, fine
arms, and strong hands—yes, strong though
exquisitly shaped; and a sinewy foot—
yes, sinewy though delicately small— for
she plied the spade with foot and hand, and
dug and dug, just at the root of the elm, till,
when the opening was about a foot in depth,
she took a small parcel out of the basket,
placed it in the hole, and then filled in the
earth and beat it down with the flat of
her spade: replacing the mossy grass, and
smoothing it with her foot, and with a quick
and anxious look all round, she advanced to
the trunk of the venerable tree, and notched
it in three places with the point of a pair of
strong scissors. Then, clutching the basket
and shouldering the spade, she returned by
the way she came, crouching as she got near
the front of the house, and effected her
escape into the garden without being noticed
by the party assembled on the lawn.

Vincent sat on his tower of speculation,
petrified with surprise, and only recalled to
flesh and blood again by the liveliest admiration.
What was it she had so carefully
buried? Who was she? Why did she
conceal her proceedings from her friends? And
how beautiful, how interesting she was!
In all his hours of solitude in the Albany,
in all his hours of dreary conviviality in
the Club, he had never dreamed of such
an adventure as this. It beat his
imaginary dinner in Baker Street all to nothing.
She was so young too—not twenty. He
was over head and ears in love with Blue-
ribbons, and determined to write down
immediately to Devonshire and tell the builder
to begin Barcombe Hall.

Should he dig up the sacred deposit and
satisfy his curiosity at once?

Play the spy on such bashful innocence!
The thought was degrading; so he clambered
down from the tree, leaped the park
palings, hurried down the lane, crossed the