'Well, I am sure you cannot be in debt; and all human woes, so far as I can see, arise either from love or money," said Trafford, laughing. "Have you quarrelled with poor Torchester? If so, I am sure you do not want my help to make it up."

"No, of course not. Oh, Geoffrey, it is partly about money, only I am afraid of you."

"Afraid of me? Come, that is too large a draft on my credulity." Trafford looked at his watch; he was beginning to feel rather uneasy at the sight of Miss Grantham's excessive embarrassment.

"No, don't look at your watch, Geoffrey. What I wanted to say is, that if-if you want money to do anything or go anywhere, you will not mind" (A sudden break-down.)

"In short, you would like to bestow half your fortune on me?" put in Trafford, smiling. "I have not the least doubt you would do so in the generous impulse of your heart. But, ma belle, such things cannot be in this commonplace world."

"The half, Geoff!" cried Miss Grantham, suddenly walking to the mantelpiece, where she rested her elbow and covered her face with her hand; "I wish-I wish I could give you the whole."

Something in her voice, her attitude, her emotion, revealed her full meaning to Trafford, who stood a moment silent, more touched and embarrassed than he would have cared to own, a dark flush passing over his brow; then approaching Miss Grantham, he gently took the hand that hung down by her side. Kissing it with the most loyal respect, he said, in a low voice: "That would be impossible, unless, indeed, I could give you my heart and life in exchange; and both have passed out of my keeping, or they would have been yours before this. There is my secret, sweet cousin."

Miss Grantham pressed his hand and drew hers away instantly. Trafford, not knowing very well what to say or do, turned to leave, when Miss Grantham, without uncovering her face, exclaimed eagerly: "One word. It is not that odious Madame de Beaumanoir? Any one but her!"

"Madame de Beaumanoir! Most certainly not."

"Thank God! Now go away, Geoffrey-do go."

He kissed her hand once more, and when she uncovered her eyes she was alone.

TEMPLE BAR.

OCTOBER 1873.

Uncle John.

BY J. G. WHYTE-MELVILLE, AUTHOR OF KATE COVENTRY,'
'DIGBY GRAND,' ETC.

OF

Me forthinketh, said King Pellinore, this shall betide, but
God may well foredoe destiny.—Morte d'Arthur.

VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.

THE LETTER-BOX.

F all taxes levied on friendship few are so galling as the corvée that compels a guest to inspect and admire the house in which he is entertained. To follow your host, with wet feet, and hands in pockets, round the stables, the kennels, the farm, and, worse still, the kitchen-garden, may well create a gloomy doubt that you had better have staid away; but this becomes a certainty when, in dismal attics and cheerless corridors, you stumble against a coal-box or are brought up with your head in a housemaid's closet. I will not ask my reader, therefore, to accompany me beyond the hall of a comfortable countryhouse in one of the midland counties; a hall well warmed and ventilated, where a good fire burns opposite the glass door that looks out upon the lawn. It seems to blaze the more cheerfully that a hard frost has bound the whole country in misery and iron. The leafless hedges. stand stiff and bristling with frozen rime, the bare trees in the park are clearly cut against a dull grey sky, the very grass crackles under the postman's foot, and that functionary would seem to be the only moving creature in the parish but for an inquisitive robin, in a bright red waistcoat, with his head on one side, who hops and jerks restlessly across the gravel in front of the hall-door.

In consequence of the postman's arrival, a well-dressed free-andeasy butler emerges from certain back-passages and corridors, bringing

VOL. XXXIX.

U

a draught of cold air along with him, and proceeds to unlock the letter-box that stands in a remote corner on one of the hall-tables. As he tumbles out the contents he scrutinises their addresses with considerable attention. And here I may observe that a shrewd upper servant, who superintends the correspondence of a family, even when he confines himself to the outside of the many missives that pass through his hands, must, if, to use his own language, he "puts that and that together," know a great deal more than we give him credit for.

On the present occasion we will take upon ourselves the fulfilment of a task for which the butler has little leisure, the postman less inclination; and, mastering the contents of these epistles, begin with No. I., addressed in a running, lady-like, not very legible hand,

To the Hon. Mrs. PIKE, South Kensington, London, S.W.

[No date.] MY DEAREST LETTY,-Not a word till I have sent a thousand kisses to Baby. He is the greatest darling in Europe, and I am sure he knew me when I wished him good-bye, in your boudoir, the day I left London. I have not forgotten my promise to write, and tell you "all how and about it," as my maid says when she begins a full, untrue, and particular account of that general rumpus among the servants which seems to prevail regularly once a month. In the first place, the old house is as nice as ever, the country very much the reverse. The fields at this time of year seem impracticable without stilts, the lanes are knee-deep in mud, one meets cattle at all sorts of unexpected turns, and I think I am equally frightened whether they have horns or not. The labourers touch their hats and grin, their wives make courtesies down to the ground. Every woman carries a basket; and oh! they are so dirty! Then the boys have sheep-dogs, and talk to them in such an extraordinary language; but the creatures seem to understand, nevertheless. The cottages and children are pretty. Perhaps it may be more tolerable in the summer. Now for our party: small and select, just what you like. Uncle John is, as he always was and always will be, a dear old dear; but his whiskers are whiter than when I saw him last, and he seems to have grown shorter. Between ourselves, Letty (mind!), I cannot help fancying that Aunt Emily is wearing him out. He is as good-tempered as ever, and sometimes full of fun, but I don't suppose it can be natural for a man to be so patient under contradiction, however well he may have been broken in; and I think if he could go away somewhere, by himself, for a month or two, it would do him a world of good. You know him thoroughly, and love him dearly, so I need say no more, but pass on to his guests, taking them as they go in to dinner, the county people first. Uncle gives his arm to a Mrs. Foster, always; I can't think why. She has no particular rank, but is the wife of the Master of the Hounds; per

haps that counts for something down here. I won't describe her, dear, I'll only describe her head. An enormous chignon, of so many shades that it is almost tartan, put on very high up, with odds and ends stuck all over it, like the toys on a twelfth-cake; a bunch of artificial vegetables, not flowers, drooping on one side; earrings like the things they hang on a chandelier; and-spectacles! How Mr. Foster could! for really he is rather nice; oldish, and ridiculous about his hunting, but good-natured and amusing, with a frank courtesy about him, that I think men of all ranks acquire who live a great deal out-of-doors. He is wretched just now, because it is freezing hard and they can't hunt. I am sure I don't know why; any amount of cold must be preferable to the slush we have all been wading about in ever since I came down. He is quite the nicest of the gentlemen, for the young ones are rather detestable. A curate from the other side of the county, who is a wonderful cricketer, I believe, and takes long walks by himself. They say he preaches beautifully, and next Sunday we shall have an opportunity of judging; as yet I have not heard him open his lips. Also two officers from some cavalry regiment, whose figures, clothes, and voices are so ridiculously alike, and their faces so devoid of all expression, that if the best-looking of the pair had not a trifling squint it would be impossible to know one from the other. Should the ice bear to-morrow, they propose teaching me to skate-either, or both, I can't tell which. But for poor Mr. Foster and his hunting, I hope it may; and only wish you were here to enjoy the fun, as they don't the least know our form, to use their own expression, and that you and I can hold our own on the Round Pond with the best performers who ever danced a minuet on steel. I have not made up my mind whether to pretend I am quite a beginner, or to astonish their weak minds by dashing out at once with a figure of 8, on the outside edge, backwards.

My dear, I am coming to the end of my paper. I shall have no space left to describe the rest of the ladies, two married and one single, all plain, nor a delightful Eton boy, who goes back, I am sorry to say, to-morrow; nor to give half the messages I should like to your dear General, my partner at whist, my adversary at bézique; the only antagonist who never made me angry, and my pattern, next to Baby, for everything that is manly and adorable; but with many kisses must remain, dearest, darling Letty,

Ever your loving

ANNIE DENNISON.

P.S.-I forgot to say we expect a Mr. Mortimer to-day, who has been a great traveller, and a Clerk from the Foreign Office, whose name I have not yet made out. Freezing hard; I think the ice will bear

to-morrow.

No. II.

To Mr. JOSIAS POTTER, the Kennels, Cublington.

If

Plumpton Priors, Jan. 12th, POTTER, As there appears but little chance of the weather changing, you had better not send out the appointments for next week. there is no prospect of improvement I shall hunt the first open day at the Kennels, and we can give the Blastonbury Woods a good drilling with a strong pack of hounds. I have been thinking over Woldsman's doings on Saturday, and have come to the conclusion we must draft him. Wildboy too is, I fear, a conceited hound. It is a pity, for I never saw too sightlier ones on the flags. I was much pleased with Frantic and Fearless. They puzzled it out through Martin's sheep at the back of Oldborough, and were never once off the line all the way to the Dales. They promise to be as good as old Frolic herself. You had better see Mr. Boulter at once about the meal, and tell Frank to go over with the cart to Sludgeley. Martin's white horse will not keep much longer.

I have a letter from the new man at Spinnithorne complaining of the damage done to his young wheat on Thursday, and another from old Miss Lovelace about her poultry. The usual story: a fox has taken nine Dorking hens, a litter of pigs, and a peacock! As soon as the hacks are roughed you can go over and talk to the Spinnithorne man, whose name I forget. If he is obstinate, tell him the damage, should there be any, shall be made good when harvest comes round. Miss Lovelace will be more difficult to manage; but you might admire the silk dress I gave her last year, and hint at another, if she seems very obstinate indeed. When you are in that neighbourhood ride round by the Lodges and see Colonel Jones's keeper; the people from Upper Preston are continually rabbiting in Preston Dene, and it is his business to keep them out. Mr. Miles tells me they found a trap that would have held a bullock in Thorpe Netherwood yesterday. I have written to Sir James on the subject; but if you see the steward it would be well to mention it. He is a good friend to hunting and a most respectable man. I cannot think of anything more just now, except that you should call on the bailiff at Kingsacre and find out how many puppies they will walk for us. He promised me two couple at least. We shall want another cow in less than a fortnight, but that may stand over till Middleton Fair. I shall be home the day after to-morrow, when I can give any further directions you require, and remain

Your friend,

JOHN FOSTER.