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afforded as to its one great subject of interest—the rich, beautiful, erratic cynosure of Green Street eyes—Mrs. Austin. . . . It was generally understood when Lizzie Granby got engaged to Mr. Austin a few years ago, that there was great rejoicing throughout the length and breadth of the clan, which was of no small measure altogether, take it either in cubic feet or superficially. People were a little surprised, it is true, but people always are, and always will be surprised to the end of time over their neighbours’ engagements. The Granbys were naturally very glad to get their orphan niece off their hands. It is not every day that one meets with a devoted, sensible, sandy-whiskered husband with £5,000 a year (and making more every day), for a pretty, penniless girl. Besides, it must be confessed that her relations found her rather a handful. They managed it all, however, extremely well—everybody admitted that. They smiled their calm monumental smile in their own serene way, and smoothed over difficulties, and ignored little outbreaks, and paid the bills once a month, and took carriage exercise—as they called it, although the carriage got far the best of the exercise—at the same hour every afternoon, and dressed for dinner, and had family prayers, and would sooner have died than