em to form that delight
of childhood, a cowslip ball, the other children supplying her with
handfuls of the gold-coated flowers, and returning a pull of the
forelock or a bobbed curtsey to her smiling thanks.

Her dress was of a plain brown-holland looking material, the bonnet she
had thrown off was of the coarsest straw, but her whole air declared
her the daughter of that lordly house; and had gold and rubies been laid
before her instead of cowslips with fairy favours, they would well have
become her princely port, long neck, and stately head, crowned with a
braid of her profuse black hair. That regal look was more remarkable in
her than beauty; her brow was too high, her features not quite regular,
her complexion of gypsy darkness, but with a glow of eyes very large,
black, and deeply set, naturally grave in expression, but just now
beaming and dancing in accordance with the encouraging smiles on her
fresh, healthy, red lips, as her hands, very soft and delicate, though
of large and strong make, completed the ball, threw it in the little
boy's face, and laughed to see his ecstasy over the delicious prize;
teaching him to play with it, tossing it backwards and forwards, shaking
him into animation, and ever and anon chasing her little dog to extract
it from between his teeth.

Suddenly she became aware of the presence of a spectator, and instantly
assuming her bonnet, and drawing up her tall figure, she exclaimed, in a
tone of welcome:

'Oh, Mr. Wingfield, you are come to see our cowslip feast.'

'There seems to be great enjoyment,' replied the young curate, looking,
however, somewhat pre-occupied.

'Look at Charlie Layton,' said she, pointing to the dumb boy. 'That ball
is perfect felicity, he had rather not play with it, the delight is mere
possession.' She was turning to the boy again, when Mr. Wingfield said,
not without hesitation--'You have not heard when to expect your party
from Madeira?'

'You know we cannot hear again. They were to sail by the next packet,
and it is uncertain how soon they may arrive.'

'And--and--your brother Arthur. Do you know when he comes home?'

'He promised to come this spring, but I fancy Captain Fitzhugh has
inveigled him somewhere to fish. He never writes, so he may come any
day. But what--is anything the matter?'

'I have a letter here that--which--in Lord Martindale's absence, I
thought it might be better--you might prefer my coming direct to you. I
cannot but think you