ord hath blessed.'

'Country air, Miss Ruthyn, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I like
to see young women eat heartily. You have had some pounds of beef and
mutton since I saw you last,' said Dr. Bryerly.

And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance in silence rather
embarrassingly.

'My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple of Aesculapius you will
approve--health first, accomplishment afterwards. The Continent is the
best field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little,
by-and-by, Maud; and to me, if my health be spared, there would be an
unspeakable though a melancholy charm in the scenes where so many happy,
though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think I
should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increased
relish. You remember old Chaulieu's sweet lines--

Desert, aimable solitude,
Sejour du calme et de la paix,
Asile ou n'entrerent jamais
Le tumulte et l'inquietude.

I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these sylvan
fastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank Heaven!--never.'

There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly's sharp face; and
hardly waiting for the impressive 'never,' he said--

'I forgot to ask, who is your banker?'

'Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,' answered Uncle Silas, dryly and
shortly.

Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed,
with a sly resolution, to say, 'You shan't come the anchorite over me.'

I saw Uncle Silas's wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a
moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly's
almost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers
into his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.

When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of making
my complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle Silas having risen, I hesitated, and
began,

'Uncle, may I mention an occurrence--which I witnessed?'

'Certainly, child,' he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. I really
think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the phantom
chaise.

So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an hour or so ago,
in the Windmill Wood.

'You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas are not ours;
their young people must be chastised, and in a way and to a degree that we
would look upon i