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embarrassed at first. Once or twice she wondered if this could be the same Mr. Campbell she used to know long ago. Lizzie could not say; there were hundreds of Campbells all over the shop, and especially in India; but this was one in a thousand, a perfect dear, though rather strict in some things and always blowing her up for using slang. He was delightful; you could not possibly forget him if you ever met him, and he could do anything—tennis or shooting, or even writing blue-books and things. “At least, everyone says he is very clever—and he is so good-looking too! He must have had a good time in India, and he has a capital appointment out there. They say his chief simply couldn’t live without him now; and as for the chieftainess!—Oh, I know these Indian travellers! and I do like to get a shot at a bird on the wing sometimes,” she concluded, throwing herself in the attitude of a sportsman, shutting one eye and imitating the position of a gun with her tennis racquet. There was nothing she could not do with that implement.

Although this enthusiastic commendation of her new friend might lead one to expect a modern edition of the Admirable Crichton, with something added from the Heir of Redclyffe, and a tinge of Lord Burleigh thrown in, still Alice thought she recognized one or two traits in the