Downs. My guardian mounted me as well as I could wish. Our own wild roads and nearly pathless moors have made me a very fearless rider. Miss Ashburner has an excellent seat, and was delighted to find out I liked equestrian exercise. Miss Anstruther is not a good horse-woman; she prefers a ramble, or the ponycarriage. About Miss Anstruther I have little to observe. She is only eight-and-twenty, her cousin tells me: I thought she must be thirty-five. In the grave serenity of her face and manner she is not unlike Lady Ashburner; but there is no relationship I am told, and she is only cousin to Sir John by courtesy. I like this quiet secluded life at Forest Range; but I believe we shall have some visitors ere long; and when the weather mends, we are to drive to Southchester to make some calls. There is a Mrs. Denham, who is so often mentioned, and she has a son named Cyril. I wonder what these Denhams will be like. Heigho! when I get to such an idle point as wondering, it is time I ceased to write. I will shut you up, my diary, for to-day.

March 2nd.-Now, my diary, let me tell you all about to-day. You are the only bosom-friend I have, dear diary, and you keep all my secrets; that is, you would keep them, if I had any to confide to you. Some day, perhaps, I shall have my secrets, "be respected like the lave," as Jenny's mother says, in "The Cotter's Saturday Night." And then, diary, then I will tell you all about it, O you silent, faithful friend !

This morning we were going a ride, Elizabeth and I, over the chalk-downs that swell so finely round about us here. They, in some measure, not fully, mind, my diary, reconcile me to the loss of mountains and of moors, and of steep fell-sides. But it began to rain, and so we stayed in-doors, and I took down my crochet-work, and spent the time till luncheon in the breakfast room. Lady Ashburner was not there; but Miss Anstruther was busy fitting sewing for the children at the village school, which is under her especial supervision; she goes there nearly every day, and

a class of elder girls comes up to her on Sunday afternoons for Bible-teaching. Elizabeth was practising.

Miss Ashburner does not care very much for music, but she takes lessons still, and has to get them ready, as she assures me, to her great annoyance. Her forte is painting; she is a real artist. She had been scampering over the keys, and sometimes counting audibly, for about an hour, when Lady Ashburner came in, in search of something in the cabinet. While she was searching a drawer, she said in her usual quiet way, "Elizabeth, Cyril Denham is come home!"

Miss Ashburner ceased her playing, and twirled herself round upon the music-stool. "O Mamma, is he really? When did he come? How do you know? When will he ride over to Forest Range?'

"I will answer your questions in order, my dear. He really is come. He returned to St. Croix last night. I know the fact, because he has written me a note, which James, the Southam carrier, has brought; and he will dine with us to-morrow, and stay all night as usual."

"I wonder if Mrs. Denham is glad to have her son again."

"I should think she is; mothers generally welcome their children home after a period of absence."

"Ah! but Mrs. Denham is not like anybody else." 'My dear, we will not fall into discussion about Mrs. Denham,-you do not like her."

"No, indeed," said Elizabeth, with emphasis; “if I had such a mother."

I trust you would obey her?

"I fear I should not, Mamma. I should be a very naughty girl!"

"What have you been practising so long?

Oh, these Wild Flower Quadrilles,' and that charming little waltz that Cyril brought me."

"You waste your time, Elizabeth; you will not know your lesson for Rosaldi, when he comes on Friday."

"I should not know it, Mamma, if he were not

coming till Friday six months. It is a horrible thing of an overture; I cannot even count it. And as for fingers, I am confident it was written for creatures with superfluous digital extremities. It wants at least ten fingers on each hand, not to speak of thumbs, which ought to be much longer than any I have seen."

Lady Ashburner having found what she sought, went back again to the great conservatory, where she and her husband were occupied with the head gardener. Elizabeth did not resume her practising; she yawned, and flung herself upon the couch, declaring that practising was most fatiguing exercise, especially to persons of lymphatic temperament.

"Which you are not, Elizabeth," said Janet Anstruther, pausing in her task.

"Oh, yes, I am, Janet. As I grow older, I shall say, like Tennyson's 'Lotus-eater,' 'There is no joy but calm.""

"You may say that now," returned Miss Anstruther, "for it is true. But the calm' of the Lotus-cater was stupor, not real calm, which is as compatible with labour as with rest."

"Oh, now she is talking metaphysics!" said Elizabeth, imploringly. "Let us speak of something else: I want to tell Agnes about Mrs. Denham."

"No," said Miss Anstruther, "you ought to leave. her to form her own opinion."

"Well, I will, that is, if I can. I should think Sally Hawkes is singing a pæan to celebrate the return of Cyril."

"Who is Sally Hawkes?" I ventured to inquire.

"Mrs. Denham's companion, who looks after the servants, gives out the stores, sees to Cyril's socks and buttons, reads aloud huge tomes of musty, fusty old divinity, copies sermons, and makes herself generally useful. As Cyril is the only lively thing about the house, she must have been qualifying for a cloister while he was away. He is always kind to her, poor little soul!"

"Who is she, though,-a poor relation?"

"Oh, no; I know nothing of her antecedents though: she came to live with Mrs. Denham about nine years ago, when Mrs. Erskine married. Somebody wanted to marry Sally once, a respectable tradesman, who lives in Southchester."

"And was she not matrimonially inclined?"

'Oh, yes; but Mrs. Denham would not hear of it: she sent the tradesman off about his business, and shut up Sally in the house. And Sally cried herself very nearly blind, and has never since read small print by candlelight, without her glasses. Mamma was very wroth, but it did not do a bit of good: no one ever can or could do anything with Mrs. Denham."

"How does she get on with her son?"

"Oh, she keeps him under, as if he was a child. He is very patient. I should run away."

"Where would you run to?"

"To the antipodes,-to anywhere,-go out for a governess, take in washing and clear starching,— marry the baker or the milkman!"

I have no doubt Miss Ashburner would do something desperate if her life were not a smooth one; but the idea of her getting her own living seems positively senseless. I am anxious to see this Cyril Denham, about whom I have heard a great deal. Janet says scarcely anybody understands him, his mother least of all. She says, too, he loves poetry, and is enthusiastically fond of books. I can see she likes him. Well, I suppose I shall sec plenty of him, since he evidently comes here pretty often, and is quite at home. When he and I have met, I will tell you all about him, O my diary!

32

CHAPTER IV.

THE DIARY CONTINUED.

March 4th.-I really have a great deal to tell you, my diary. I meant to talk to you last night, when I came up to bed; but I was too sleepy, or else too lazy, or else inclined to pursue my own train of thought, and look a little way into the possible future, instead of registering the events of a day that was just gone by.

It was the day before yesterday that I wondered why the dinner-bell did not ring at the appointed time; for generally speaking our arrangements as a family seem to be regulated by clockwork. It was getting dark, and I had let my fire so low, that the room was chilly, for it was an extremely cold evening, and a sprinkling of snow lay on the frozen ground. So, being quite ready for dinner, I thought I could not do better than go to the drawing-room, where there would certainly be a noble blaze, and probably Miss Anstruther or Lady Ashburner to talk to. for Elizabeth, she usally rushes down at the last minute, putting the final touches to her toilet on the staircase, to the utter distraction of her maid, and entering the dining-room just as grace is being said, or even as the soup is being carried round. She tells me she had " oceans of bad marks" for "want of punctuality" when she was at school. When I entered the large drawing-room, no one, however, was there. The lamps were not lighted, and the curtains were not drawn so I stood for a minute or two looking upon the beauteous crescent of the young March moon; on the deep blue-grey shadows in which all the