a very pretty young lady.

"The plot thickens," said Francesca, who was nearest the window.
"Do you suppose she is his bride-elect, and is he showing her their
future home, or is she already his wife? If so, I fear me she
married him for his title and estates, for he is more than a shade
too old for her."

"Don't be censorious, child," I remonstrated, taking my cup idly
across the room, to be nearer the scene of action. "Oh, dear! there
is a slight discrepancy, I confess, but I can explain it. This is
how it happened: The girl had never really loved, and did not know
what the feeling was. She did know that the aged suitor was a good
and worthy man, and her mother and nine small brothers and sisters
(very much out at the toes) urged the marriage. The father, too,
had speculated heavily in consorts or consuls, or whatever-you-call-
'ems, and besought his child not to expose his defalcations and
losses. She, dutiful girl, did as she was bid, especially as her
youngest sister came to her in tears and said, 'Unless you consent
we shall have to sell the cow!' So she went to the altar with a
heart full of palpitating respect, but no love to speak of; that
always comes in time to heroines who sacrifice themselves and spare
the cows."

"It sounds strangely familiar," remarked Mr. Beresford, who was with
us, as usual. "Didn't a fellow turn up in the next chapter, a young
nephew of the old husband, who fell in love with the bride,
unconsciously and against his will? Wasn't she obliged to take him
into the conservatory, at the end of a week, and say, 'G-go! I
beseech you! for b-both our sakes!'? Didn't the noble fellow wring