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feel myself bound to check this unexampled insolence, and at the same time—if possible—to reclaim him. You received it this morning?"

"Yes; just before breakfast."

"Very well—very well. I'll give him such a lecture. The Crumpet—tchoo! However, I'll see about it."

Aunt Eleanor now re-entered the room. She felt much better, although still in pain: her cheeks were rosy, and tears were in her eyes. She was, moreover, still very warm.

"Have you made out the chorus yet?" she inquired.

"We have certainly made it out," replied the reverend gentleman. "But did you ever in your life hear of such consummate impudence as that which prompted this man to send a thing of that kind here?"

"Oh, I dare say that he thinks it excessively clever. He is evidently proud of its being his own—and I've no doubt at all that it is."

"But the idea—the impudent idea—of his sending it to Sylvester: that's what I look at."

"He, perhaps, conceived that Sylvester was the only one here who could appreciate its beauty, and he's not a man who imagines that he was 'born to blush unseen.' We must forgive these little exhibitions of vanity. They are really too ridiculous to excite anger. The song has amused me amazingly: I have not had so hearty a laugh for a long time."

"There is," said the reverend gentleman, "in your character but one trait of which I have reason to complain, and which is this: that you invariably take a too charitable view of the moral delinquencies of those around you. If you cannot conceive any actual excuse, you are sure to find something in extenuation. You are too good to live in this world: that's the only fault I have to find with you. If you had the absolute rule, you would wrest the sword from the hand of justice, and administer nothing but mercy."

"Cotherstone Grange is the place for compliments, after all," observed Sylvester.

"Nay, but it's the truth," resumed the reverend gentleman. "It is invariably the case. If she were to fill the office of chief magistrate—an office for which she is not by nature qualified—we should have all mercy and no justice. You perceive she endeavours to palliate the insolence of this man, even after he has had the effrontery to state that he'll be at 'the Crumpet' at nine, and to intimate clearly that he expects you to meet him!"

"Are you sure," said Aunt Eleanor, as Sylvester left the room smiling "quite sure that this poor unhappy man is not insane?"

"There you are again, my dear Eleanor! He is not insane. Besides, he's a bad man. He never comes to church: there's no religion in him."

"Is not that a proof of his insanity?"

This puzzled the reverend gentleman. He felt unable to get over it. He, therefore, smiled, and kissed Aunt Eleanor, and exclaimed—

"God bless you, my dear: you are a kind, good creature! We'll say no more about it."

This defeat, however, did not at all interfere with that which the re-