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7, 1860.] passage of arms between them, Mr. John Raikes was compelled to be the victor—to have the last word and the best, and to win the laughter of Rose, which was as much to him as a confession of love from that young lady. Then Juliana came out, and Mr. Raikes made apologies to her, rejecting her in the light of a spouse at the first perusal of her face. Then issued forth the swimming Countess de Saldar, and the mutual courtesies between her and Mr. Raikes were elaborate, prolonged, and smacking prodigiously of Louis Quatorze. But Rose suffered laughter to be seen struggling round her mouth; and the Countess dismayed Mr. Raikes by telling him he would be perfect by-and-by, and so dislocating her fair self from the ridicule she opened to him: a stroke which gave him sharp twinges of uneasiness, and an immense respect for her. The Countess subsequently withdrew him, and walked him up and down, and taught him many new things, and so affected him by her graces, that Mr. John Raikes had a passing attack of infidelity to the heiress.

While this lull occurs, we will follow Tom Cogglesby, as he chooses to be called.

Lady Jocelyn rose on his entering the library, and walking up to him, encountered him with a kindly full face.

“So I see you at last, Tom?” she said, without releasing his hand; and Old Tom mounted patches of red in his wrinkled cheeks, and blinked, and betrayed a singular antiquated bashfulness, which ended, after a mumble of “Yes, there he was, and he hoped her ladyship was well,” by his seeking refuge in a chair, where he sat hard, and fixed his attention on the leg of a table.

“Well, Tom, do you find much change in me?” she was woman enough to continue.

He was obliged to look up.

“Can’t say I do, my lady.”

“Don’t you see the grey hairs, Tom?”

“Better than a wig,” rejoined he.

Was it true that her ladyship had behaved rather ill to Old Tom in her youth? Excellent women have been naughty girls, and young beauties will have their train. It is also very possible that Old Tom had presumed upon trifles, and found it difficult to forgive her his own folly.

“Preferable to a wig? Well, I would rather see you with your natural thatch. You’re bent, too. You look as if you had kept away from Beckley a little too long.”

“Told you, my lady, I should come when your daughter was marriageable.

“Oho! that’s it? I thought it was the Election.”

“Election be—hem!—beg pardon, my lady.”

“Swear, Tom, if it relieves you. I think it bad to check an oath or a sneeze.”

“I’m come to see you on business, my lady, or I shouldn’t have troubled you.”

“Malice?”

“You’ll see I don’t bear any, my lady.”

“Ah! if you had only sworn roundly twenty-five years ago, what a much younger man you would have been! and a brave capital old friend whom I should not have missed all that time.”

“Come!” cried Old Tom, varying his eyes rapidly between her ladyship’s face and the floor, “you acknowledge I had reason to.”

“Mais, cela va sans dire.”

“Cobbler’s sons ain’t scholars, my lady.”

“And are not all in the habit of throwing their fathers in our teeth, I hope!”

Old Tom wriggled in his chair. “Well, my lady, I’m not going to make a fool of myself at my time o’ life. Needn’t be alarmed now. You’ve got the bell-rope handy and a husband on the premises.”

Lady Jocelyn smiled, stood up, and went to him. “I like an honest fist,” she said, taking his. “We’re not going to be doubtful friends, and we won’t snap and snarl. That’s for people who’re independent of wigs, Tom. I find, for my part, that a little grey on the top of my head cools the temper amazingly. I used to be rather hot once.”

“You could be peppery, my lady.”

“Now I’m cool, Tom, and so must you be; or, if you fight, it must be in my cause, as you did when you thrashed that saucy young carter. Do you remember?”

“If you’ll sit ye down, my lady, I’ll just tell you what I’m come for,” said Old Tom, who plainly showed that he did remember, and was alarmingly softened by her ladyship’s retention of the incident.

Lady Jocelyn returned to her place.

“You’ve got a marriageable daughter, my lady?”

“I suppose we may call her so,” said Lady Jocelyn, with a composed glance at the ceiling.

’Gaged to be married to any young chap?”

“You must put the question to her, Tom.”

“Ha! I don’t want to see her.”

At this Lady Jocelyn looked slightly relieved. Old Tom continued,

“Happen to have got a little money—not so much as many a lord’s got, I dare say; such as ’tis, there ’tis. Young fellow I know wants a wife, and he shall have best part of it. Will that suit ye, my lady?”

Lady Jocelyn folded her hands. “Certainly; I’ve no objection. What it has to do with me I can’t perceive.”

“Ahem!” went Old Tom. “It won’t hurt your daughter to be married now, will it?”

“Oh! my daughter is the destined bride of your ‘young fellow, ” said Lady Jocelyn. “Is that how it’s to be?”

“She”—Old Tom cleared his throat—“she won’t marry a lord, my lady; but she—’hem—if she don’t mind that—’ll have a deuced sight more hard cash than many lord’s son’d give her, and a young fellow for a husband, sound in wind and limb, good bone and muscle, speaks grammar and two or three languages, and—”

“Stop!” cried Lady Jocelyn. “I hope this is not a prize young man? If he belongs, at his age, to the unco guid, I refuse to take him for a son-in-law, and I think Rose will, too.”

Old Tom burst out vehemently: “He’s a damned good young fellow, though he isn’t a lord.”

“Well,” said Lady Jocelyn, “I’ve no doubt you’re in earnest, Tom. It’s curious, for this