eps the
attention chained. The description indeed of poor Mary's grief and
despair are hardly to be outdone. The plot contains a delicate
situation, most delicately worked out. Not a word or suspicion of a
word jars upon the reader. It is not however all gloom. There is in it
a second pair of lovers who help to lift the clouds, and bring a smile
to the lips of the reader.

Mrs. Hungerford does not often leave her pretty Irish home. What with
her incessant literary work, her manifold domestic occupations, and the
cares of her large family, she can seldom be induced to quit what she
calls, 'an out and out country life', even to pay visits to her English
friends. Mrs. Hungerford unhesitatingly declares that everything in the
house seems wrong, and there is a howl of dismay from the children when
the presiding genius even suggests a few days' leave of absence. Last
year, however, she determined to go over London at the pressing
invitation of a friend, in order to make the acquaintance of some of
her distinguished brothers and sisters of the pen, and she speaks of
how thoroughly she enjoyed that visit, with an eager delight. 'Everyone
was so kind', she says, 'so flattering, far, far too flattering. They
all seemed to have some pretty thing to say to me. I have felt a little
spoilt ever since. However, I am going to try what a little more
flattery will do for me, so Mr. Hungerford and I hope to accept, next
Spring, a second invitation from the same friend, who wants us to go to
a large ball she is going to give some time in May for some charitable
institution--a Cottage Hospital I believe; but come', she adds,
suddenly springing up, 'we have spent quite too much time over my
stupid self. Come back to the drawing-room and the chicks, I am sure
they must be wondering where we are, and the tea and the cakes are
growing cold'.

At this moment the door opens, and her husband, gun in hand, with muddy
boots and gaiters, nods to you from the threshold; he says he dare not
enter the 'den' in this state, and hurries up to change before joining
the tea table. 'He is a great athlete', says his wife, 'good at
cricket, football, and hockey, and equally fond of shooting, fishing,
and riding'. That he is a capital whip, you have already found out.

In the morning you see from the library window a flower garden and
shrubbery, with rose trees galore, and after breakfast a stroll round
the place is proposed. A brisk walk down the avenue firs