so she ran on in her fancies and imaginations, little dreaming that that very night much talk was going on, not half-a-mile from where she sate sewing, which could prove that the “scrape” (as she called it, in her girlish phraseology) was not all over.

Scandal sleeps in the summer, comparatively speaking. Its nature is the reverse of that of the dormouse. Warm ambient air, loiterings abroad, gardenings, flowers to talk about, and preserves to make, soothed the wicked imp to slumber in the parish of Hollingford in summer-time. But when evenings grew short, and people gathered round the fires, and put their feet in a circle—not on the fenders, that was not allowed—then was the time for confidential conversation! Or, in the pauses allowed for the tea-trays to circulate among the card-tables—when those who were peaceably inclined tried to stop the warm discussions about “the odd trick,” and the rather wearisome feminine way of “shouldering the crutch, and showing how fields were won”—small crumbs and scraps of daily news came up to the surface, such as “Martindale has raised the price of his best joints a halfpenny in the pound;” or, “It’s a shame of Sir Harry to order in another book on farriery into the Book Society; Phœbe and I tried to read it, but really there is no general interest in it;” or, “I wonder what Mr. Ashton will do, now Nancy is going to be married! Why, she’s been with him these seventeen years! It’s a very foolish thing for a woman of her age to be thinking of matrimony; and so I told her, when I met her in the market-place this morning!”

So said Miss Browning on the night in question; her hand of cards lying by her on the puce baize-covered table, while she munched the rich pound-cake of a certain Mrs. Dawes, lately come to inhabit Hollingford.

“Matrimony’s not so bad as you think for, Miss Browning,” said Mrs. Goodenough, standing up for the holy estate into which she had twice entered. “If I’d ha’ seen Nancy, I should ha’ given her my mind very different. It’s a great thing to be able to settle what you’ll have for dinner, without never a one interfering with you.”

“If that’s all!” said Miss Browning, drawing herself up, “I can do that; and, perhaps, better than a woman who has a husband to please.”

“No one can say as I didn’t please my husbands—both on ’em, though Jeremy was tickler in his tastes than poor Harry Beaver. But, as I used to say to ’em, ‘Leave the victual to me; it’s better for you than knowing what’s to come beforehand. The stomach likes to be taken by surprise.’ And neither of ’em ever repented ’em of their confidence. You may take my word for it, beans and bacon will taste better (to Mr. Ashton’s Nancy in her own house) than all the sweetbreads and spring-chickens she’s been a- doing for him this seventeen years. But, if I chose, I could tell you of something as would interest you all a deal more than Nancy’s marriage to a widower with nine children—only, as the young folks themselves is meeting in private, clandestine-like, it’s perhaps not for me to tell their secrets.”

“I’m sure I don’t want to hear of clandestine meetings between young men and young women,” said Miss Browning, throwing up her head. “It’s disgrace enough to the people themselves, I consider, if they enter on a love-affair without the proper sanction of parents. I know public opinion has changed on the subject; but, when poor Gratia was married to Mr. Byerley, he wrote to my father without ever having so much as paid her a compliment, or said more than the most trivial and commonplace things to her; and my father and mother sent for her into my father’s study, and she said she was never so much frightened in her life—and they said it was a very good offer, and Mr. Byerley was a very worthy man, and they hoped she would behave properly to him when he came to supper that night. And, after that, he was allowed to come twice a week till they were married. My mother and I sate at our work in the bow-window of the Rectory drawing-room, and Gratia and Mr. Byerley at the other end; and my mother always called my attention to some flower or plant in the garden when it struck nine, for that was his time for going. Without offence to the present company, I am rather inclined to look upon matrimony as a weakness to which some very worthy people are prone; but, if they must be married, let them make the best of it, and go through the affair with dignity and propriety: or, if there are misdoings and clandestine meetings, and such things, at any rate, never let me hear about them! I think it’s you to play, Mrs. Dawes. You’ll