the balance. Conceive that he bears his
sorrows under his cloak.

But the Misses Bridles ? A golden episcopal
cloud seemed to hang over those dear
ladies, and I yearned to know more concerning
them. From the grave and stately
manner in which the person who was to
housekeep for me introduced their names, it
was easy to gather that they were persons of
awful consideration in the town. The episcopal
consanguinity hung about them like a
halo. The mitre overshadowed them from
afar. The town— not excepting the great
medicinal and legal interests— looked to them
affectionately, daily and hourly, just as they
looked to the old village clock. The
inhabitants took their time from both. Nay,
was there not raging, at that instant, a
furious vendetta between two great houses
—a vendetta, like enough to be handed
down with solemn oath from mother to
daughter, the end of which no man could
see— all to be set down to the account of
Miss Bridles ? Well! I would wait on
Misses Bridles.

They lived at Dorkingscoop, a little way
out of the town, a quiet, sequestered
retreat, with a green paling in front. My
name was taken up. Would the Reverend
Alfred Hoblush walk into the drawing-room?
Would he sit down and recreate himself, as
best he could, with the light musketry of
holiness which covered the table? He took
especial notice of Barm for the Benighted.
By the Reverend C. B. McCuddy. To Miss
Jemima Bridles, respectfully presented by
the author. Moving slowly round the table—
which might be taken for a saint's mariner's
compass, with the points marked by
comforting tracts— he read off The Sinner's
Cordial Drops; or, The Confidential Pocket
Pistol. By the Reverend C. B. McCuddy.
To Miss Jemima Bridles, with the author's
affectionate duty. Together with many more
works of similar character; mostly by the
same divine, and laid at the feet of Miss
Bridles in terms of dedication more or less
ardent. While thus boxing the spiritual
compass and at the same time not a little troubled
as to the footing of this particular minister
of the gospel, two ladies entered in Indian
file, and welcomed me simultaneously to
Dorkingscoop.

The elder of the twain, whom I knew
afterwards to be Sophia Dorothea (named, I
believe, in compliment to the ill-fated Princess
of Zell, who involved the wretched
Koningsmark in dreadful consequences), was
of tall, nay, magnificent proportions. She
had a stout, manly bearing, and a firm tread,
indicative of the decision of character which
flashed continually from her eye. Her cheek
was embrowned, perhaps by exposure to
the rays of the sultry summer sun, perhaps
from imperfection of the cuticle arising
from natural causes; for these things are
inscrutable. Nay, at times, I have seen
her face assume an inflamed aspect, almost
akin to the visitation popularly ascribed to
Saint Anthony. She was arrayed as lightly
as was compatible with the season, being not
foolishly overburdened with steel mail underneath,
but went slimly down to the earth
with garments whose folds clung closely to
her frame and showed off the matchless
symmetry of her limbs. That was Sophia
Dorothea.

But for Jemima, the second and remaining
sister; at whose feet had been laid the
awakening literature, to limn— yes, limn— her
features becomingly is beyond the strength
of the Reverend Alfred Hoblush. Her person
was short and small, and her exquisitely
proportioned throat might almost be spanned
by the hand; while through its transparent
skin all the tendons and cartilages which
abound so plentifully in the great human
system, could be made out with startling
vividness. Her skin was stretched so
tightly over her finely-moulded features that
not so much as the smallest wrinkle could
display itself. She must have been the
very soul of motion, being always busy, and
shooting from her seat periodically with
extraordinary activity. That was the beautiful
Jemima.

"I was," I said, in low, gentle accents,
"the newly-appointed minister of the parish.
The Lord Bishop of Tweakminster had been
kind enough to— "

"We know it all," broke in the elder, in
a manly voice. " Sit down! there is a chair
behind you."

Much disturbed by this curious Iusus naturæ
(for he could not divest himself of the idea
that he was being addressed by one of his
own species), Reverend Mr. Hoblush did as
he was desired; but incontinently sat down
on his own hat. It became at once as a
Gibus or opera-hat. A hoarse laugh broke
from the namesake of the unfortunate Lady
of Zell; but I at once saw sympathy in the
eyes of the gentle Jemima. She must have
noticed the glance of grateful tenderness in
my eyes as I restored my hat to its natural
shape. That gentle bosom felt for my
misfortune.

Bishop Bridles had been pleased to write
concerning him in very complimentary terms.
Said sweet, nun-like Jemima,— " We know
you already, Mr. Hoblush— know you nearly
as well as our own dear brother who is now
far far away in the Carribee Isles. We have
heard of you, and talked of you through the
lone winter nights, when the winds were
howling dismally, and sweeping athwart
roof-trees, and moaning in the chimneys.
Have we not, sister?"

Here was a friendly bosom to lean upon!
Hither accordingly I used to repair, almost
daily, ever afterwards. Before very long I
had poured into Jemima Bridles' sympathising
heart the whole story of my blighted loves
and my young sorrows, the rehearsing of