ersonage."

"A shrewd guess, Nell: but pray, why should Walter carry the purse about
him so carefully? Ah, you blush: well, will you knit him another?"

"Pshaw, Papa! Good b'ye, I am going to gather you a nosegay."

But Ellinor was seized with a sudden fit of industry, and somehow or
other she grew fonder of knitting than ever.

The neighbourhood was now tranquil and at peace; the nightly depredators
that had infested the green valleys of Grassdale were heard of no more;
it seemed a sudden incursion of fraud and crime, which was too unnatural
to the character of the spot invaded to do more than to terrify and
to disappear. The truditur dies die; the serene steps of one calm day
chasing another returned, and the past alarm was only remembered as a
tempting subject of gossip to the villagers, and (at the Hall) a theme
of eulogium on the courage of Eugene Aram.

"It is a lovely day," said Lester to his daughters, as they sate at the
window; "come, girls, get your bonnets, and let us take a walk into the
village."

"And meet the postman," said Ellinor, archly.

"Yes," rejoined Madeline in the same vein, but in a whisper that Lester
might not hear, "for who knows but that we may have a letter from
Walter?"

How prettily sounds such raillery on virgin lips. No, no; nothing on
earth is so lovely as the confidence between two happy sisters, who have
no secrets but those of a guileless love to reveal!

As they strolled into the village, they were met by Peter Dealtry, who
was slowly riding home on a large ass which carried himself and his
panniers to the neighbouring market in a more quiet and luxurious
indolence of action than would the harsher motions of the equine
species.

"A fine day, Peter: and what news at market?" said Lester.

"Corn high,--hay dear, your honour," replied the clerk.

"Ah, I suppose so; a good time to sell ours, Peter;--we must see about
it on Saturday. But, pray, have you heard any thing from the Corporal
since his departure?"

"Not I, your honour, not I; though I think as he might have given us a
line, if it was only to thank me for my care of his cat, but--

'Them as comes to go to roam,
Thinks slight of they as stays at home.'"

"A notable distich, Peter; your own composition, I warrant."

"Mine! Lord love your honour, I has no genus, but I has memory; and when
them ere beautiful lines of poetry-like comes into my head, they stays
there, and stays till they pops out at