“No, dammy; no, Captain,” Jos replied, rather alarmed. “No billiards to-day, Crawley, my boy; yesterday was enough.”

“You play very well,” said Crawley, laughing. “Don’t he, Osborne? How well he made that-five stroke, eh?”

“Famous,” Osborne said. “Jos is a devil of a fellow at billiards, and at everything else, too. I wish there were any tiger-hunting about here! we might go and kill a few before dinner. (There goes a fine girl! what an ankle, eh, Jos?) Tell us that story about the tiger-hunt, and the way you did for him in the jungle—it’s a wonderful story that, Crawley.” Here George Osborne gave a yawn. “It’s rather slow work,” said he, “down here; what shall we do?”

“Shall we go and look at some horses that Snaffler’s just brought from Lewes fair?” Crawley said.

“Suppose we go and have some jellies at Dutton’s,” and the rogue Jos, willing to kill two birds with one stone. “Devilish fine gal at Dutton’s.”

“Suppose we go and see the Lightning come in, it’s just about time?” George said. This advice prevailing over the stables and the jelly, they turned towards the coach-office to witness the Lightning’s arrival.

As they passed, they met the carriage—Jos Sedley’s open carriage, with its magnificent armorial bearings— that splendid conveyance in which he used to drive, about at Cheltonham, majestic and solitary, with his arms folded, and his hat cocked; or, more happy, with ladies by his side.

Two were in the carriage now: one a little person, with light hair, and dressed in the height of the fashion; the other in a brown silk pelisse, and a straw bonnet with pink ribbons, with a rosy, round, happy face, that did you good to behold. She checked the carriage as it neared the three gentlemen, after which exercise of authority she looked rather nervous, and then began to blush most absurdly. “We have had a delightful drive, George,” she said, “and—and we’re so glad to come back; and, Joseph, don’t let him be late.”

“Don’t be leading our husbands into mischief, Mr. Sedley, you wicked, wicked man you,” Rebecca said, shaking at Jos a pretty little finger covered with the neatest French kid glove. “No billiards, no smoking, no naughtiness!”

“My dear Mrs. Crawley—Ah now! upon my honour!” was all Jos could ejaculate by way of reply; but he managed to fall into a tolerable attitude, with his head lying on his shoulder, grinning upwards at his victim, with one hand at his back, which he supported on his cane, and the other hand (the one with the diamond ring) fumbling in his shirt-frill and among his under-waistcoats. As the carriage drove off he kissed the diamond hand to the fair ladies within. He wished all Cheltenham, all Chowringhee, all Calcutta, could see him in that position, waving his hand to such a beauty, and in company with such a famous buck as Rawdon Crawley of the Guards.

Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton as the place where they would pass the first few days after their marriage; and having engaged apartments at the Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he the only companion they found there. As they were coming into the hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon, on whom should they light but Rebecca and her husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough: and Becky, in the course of a very few hours, found means to make the latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words which had happened between them. “Do you remember the last time we met at Miss Crawley’s, when I was so rude to you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and so pert: and so unkind: and so ungrateful. Do forgive me!” Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so frank and winning a grace, that Osborne could not but take it. By humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to be in the wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good you may do. I knew once a gentleman and very worthy practitioner in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs to his