ith so favourite a pack as "the Heavy-top" hounds. I
wish I had summoned courage to ask the man when his master was coming
and where he was going to stay; but I really couldn't do it--no, not
if my life depended on it. All the way home Cousin Amelia laughed and
sneered and chattered, and once she acknowledged I was "the
best-tempered girl in the world;" but I am sure I have not an idea why
I deserve this character. Her words fell perfectly unheeded on my ear.
I was glad to get to the solitude of my own room, when it was time to
dress for dinner, that I might have the luxury, if it was only for
five minutes, of _thinking_ undisturbed. But there was Aunt Deborah to
be attended to; for poor Aunt Deborah, I am sorry to say, is by no
means well. And Gertrude came in "to do my hair;" and then the
dinner-bell rang, and the wearisome meal, and the long evening dragged
on in their accustomed monotony. But I did not find it as dull as
usual, though I was more rejoiced than ever when the hand-candles came
and we were dismissed to go to bed.

And now they are all fast asleep, and I can sit at my open window and
think, think, think as much as I like. What a lovely night it is! The
mist has cleared off, and the moat is glistening in the moonlight, and
the old trees are silvered over and blackened alternately by its
beams; the church tower stands out massively against the sky. How dark
the old belfry looks on such a night as this, contrasting with the
white tombstones in the churchyard, and the slated roof shimmering
above the aisle! There is a faint breeze sighing amongst the few
remaining leaves, now rising into a pleading whisper, now dying away
with a sad, unearthly moan. The deer are moving restlessly about the
Park, now standing out in bold relief on some open space brightened by
the moonlight, now flitting like spectres athwart the shade.
Everything breathes of romance and illusion; and I do believe it is
very bad for one to be watching here, dreaming wide awake, instead of
snoring healthily in bed. I wonder what he is about at this moment.
Perhaps smoking a cigar out of doors, and enjoying this beautiful
night. I wonder what he is thinking of. Perhaps, after all, he's
stewed up in some lamplit drawing-room talking nonsense to Lady
Scapegrace and Mrs. Lumley, or playing that odious whist at his club.
Well, I suppose I may as well go to bed. One more look into the night,
and then--hark! what is it? how beautiful, how charming! D