s: but behold, it is not as long as the
publisher thinks fit, and Messrs. Brown and Younger have written down
to entreat in haste for some four hundred lines more, on any subject
which Mr. Vavasour may choose. And therefore is Elsley beating his
home covers, heavily shot over though they have been already this
season, in hopes that a few head of his own game may still be left: or
in default (for human nature is the same, in poets and in sportsmen),
that a few head may have strayed in out of his neighbours' manors.

At last the sport slackens; for the sportsman is getting tired, and
hungry also, to carry on the metaphor; for he has seen the postman
come up the front walk a quarter of an hour since, and the letters
have not been brought in yet.

At last there is a knock at the door, which he answers by a somewhat
testy "come in." But he checks the coming grumble, when not the maid,
but Lucia enters.

Why not grumble at Lucia? He has done so many a time.

Because she looks this morning so charming; really quite pretty again,
so radiant is her face with smiles. And because, also, she holds
triumphant above her head a newspaper.

She dances up to him--

"I have something for you."

"For me? Why, the post has been in this half-hour."

"Yes, for you, and that's just the reason why I kept it myself. D'ye
understand my Irish reasoning?"

"No, you pretty creature," said Elsley, who saw that whatever the news
was, it was good news.

"Pretty creature, am I? I was once, I know; but I thought you had
forgotten all about that. But I was not going to let you have the
paper till I had devoured every word of it myself first."

"Every word of what?"

"Of what you shan't have unless you promise to be good for a week.
Such a Review; and from America! What a dear man he must be who wrote
it! I really think I should kiss him if I met him."

"And I really think he would not say no. But as he's not here, I shall
act as his proxy."

"Be quiet, and read that, if you can, for blushes;" and she spread out
the paper before him, and then covered his eyes with her hands. "No,
you shan't see it; it will make you vain."

Elsley had looked eagerly at the honeyed columns; (as who would not
have done?) but the last word smote him. What was he thinking of? his
own praise, or his wife's love?

"Too true," he cried, looking up at her. "You dear creature! Vain I
am, God forgive me: but before I look at a word of this I must have a
talk wi