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end of a journey is its pleasantest part. So thought Lord Mandeville, as the postilions gave their whips an extra crack, in order to drive up the avenue in style. They had the credit of their horses as much at heart as their own. To-night, however, whipmanship was somewhat wasted;—a small, heavy rain had made the road so soft, that the ringing wheel and clattering hoof were inaudible. This was a great mortification to the postboys, to whom noise, if not speed, was at least speed's best part.

"How late they are, and how stupid we are!" said Lady Mandeville, glancing reproachfully first at Mr. Morland, who, having taken what he called a most constitutional walk, was now in a large arm-chair sleeping off the effects of