with pretty covers and engravings; and floods of elegant
twaddle--the milk, not destitute of water, on which the babes of literature
were then fed. On this, my genius throve. I had a little album, enriched
with many gems of original thought and observation, which I jotted down in
suitable language. Lately, turning over these faded leaves of rhyme
and prose, I lighted, under this day's date, upon the following sage
reflection, with my name appended:--

'Is there not in the female heart an ineradicable jealousy, which, if it
sways the passions of the young, rules also the _advice_ of the _aged_? Do
they not grudge to youth the sentiments (though Heaven knows how _shadowed_
with sorrow) which they can _no longer inspire_, perhaps even _experience_;
and does not youth, in turn, sigh over the envy which has _power to
blight_?

MAUD AYLMER RUTHYN.'

'He has not been making love to me,' I said rather tartly, 'and he does not
seem to me at all impertinent, and I really don't care the least whether he
goes or stays.'

Cousin Monica looked in my face with her old waggish smile, and laughed.

'You'll understand those London dandies better some day, dear Maud; they
are very well, but they like money--not to keep, of course--but still they
like it and know its value.'

At breakfast my father told Captain Oakley where he might have shooting, or
if he preferred going to Dilsford, only half an hour's ride, he might have
his choice of hunters, and find the dogs there that morning.

The Captain smiled archly at me, and looked at his aunt. There was a
suspense. I hope I did not show how much I was interested--but it would not
do. Cousin Monica was inexorable.

'Hunting, hawking, fishing, fiddle-de-dee! You know, Charlie, my dear, it
is quite out of the question. He is going to Snodhurst this afternoon, and
without quite a rudeness, in which I should be involved too, he really
can't--you know you can't, Charles! and--and he _must_ go and keep his
engagement.'

So papa acquiesced with a polite regret, and hoped another time.

'Oh, leave all that to me. When you want him, only write me a note, and
I'll send him or bring him if you let me. I always know where to find
him--don't I, Charlie?--and we shall be only too happy.'

Aunt Monica's influence with her nephew was special, for she 'tipped' him
handsomely every now and then, and he had formed for himself agreeable
expectations, besides, respecting her will. I felt rather angry