e
your hour and dine with me.'

'By-the-bye, my dear father, you, who know everything, do you happen to
know a gentleman of the name of Temple in this neighbourhood?'

'I think I heard that Mr. Ducie had let the Bower to a gentleman of that
name.'

'Do you know who he is?'

'I never asked; for I feel no interest except about proprietors, because
they enter into my County History. But I think I once heard that this
Mr. Temple had been our minister at some foreign court. You give me a
fine dinner and eat nothing yourself. This pigeon is savoury.'

'I will trouble you. I think there once was a Henrietta Armine, my
father?'

'The beautiful creature!' said Glastonbury, laying down his knife and
fork; 'she died young. She was a daughter of Lord Armine; and the Queen,
Henrietta Maria, was her godmother. It grieves me much that we have no
portrait of her. She was very fair, her eyes of a sweet light blue.'

'Oh! no; dark, my father; dark and deep as the violet.'

'My child, the letter-writer, who mentions her death, describes them as
light blue. I know of no other record of her beauty.'

'I wish they had been dark,' said Ferdinand recovering himself;
'however, I am glad there was a Henrietta Armine; 'tis a beautiful
name.'

'I think that Armine makes any name sound well,' said Glastonbury. 'No
more wine indeed, my child. Nay! if I must,' continued he, with a most
benevolent smile, 'I will drink to the health of Miss Grandison!'

'Ah!' exclaimed Ferdinand.

'My child, what is the matter?' inquired Glastonbury.

'A gnat, a fly, a wasp! something stung me,' said Ferdinand.

'Let me fetch my oil of lilies,' said Glastonbury; ''tis a specific'

'Oh, no! 'tis nothing, only a fly: sharp at the moment; nothing more.'

The dinner was over; they retired to the library. Ferdinand walked
about the room restless and moody; at length he bethought himself of the
piano, and, affecting an anxiety to hear some old favourite compositions
of Glastonbury, he contrived to occupy his companion. In time, however,
his old tutor invited him to take his violoncello and join him in a
concerto. Ferdinand of course complied with his invitation, but the
result was not satisfactory. After a series of blunders, which were the
natural result of his thoughts being occupied on other subjects, he was
obliged to plead a headache, and was glad when he could escape to his
chamber.

Rest, however, no longer awaited him on his old pillow. It was at