ears of age: he is short, well built, and active, delighting
in the chase; slender rather than stout, but not thin; red in the face
from constant exposure, scrupulous in the shaving of his smooth chin and
in the scrubbing processes, dressed with untarnishing neatness; having
large hands with large nails, smooth and tolerably thick gray hair,
strongly marked eyebrows, and small, bright eyes of a gray-blue color.
In his personal appearance he is a type of a fine race; in character and
tastes he is a specimen of the best class of men to be met with in our
day. He is a country gentleman, educated in the traditions of Rugby and
Oxford at a time when those institutions had not succumbed to the subtle
evils of our times, whereby the weak are corrupted into effeminate fools
and the strong into abominable bullies. John Carvel's Latin has survived
his school-days, and his manliness has outlived the university. He
belongs to that class of Englishmen who proverbially speak the truth.

When he began life, an orphan at twenty-two years of age, he found
himself comparatively poor, but in spite of the prejudices of those days
he was not ashamed to better his fortunes by manufacture, and he is now
a rich man. He married Mary Dabstreak for love, and has never regretted
it. He has lived most of his life at Carvel Place, has hunted
perpetually, and has of late years developed a taste for books which is
likely to stand him in good stead in his old age. There is a fine
library in the house, and much has been added to it in the last ten
years. Miss Chrysophrasia occasionally strays into the repository of
learning, but she has little sympathy with the contents of the shelves.

Miss Chrysophrasia Dabstreak is a lady concerning whom there is much
speculation, to very little purpose, in the world as represented by the
select society in which she droops,--not moves. She is an amateur.

Her eye rejoices only in the tints of the crushed strawberry and the
faded olive; her ear loves the limited poetry of doubtful sound produced
by abortive attempts to revive the unbarred melodies of the troubadours;
and her soul thrills responsively in the checkered light falling through
a stained-glass window, as a sensitive-plant waves its sticky leaves
when a fly is in the neighborhood.

But life has attractions for Chrysophrasia. She enjoys it after her own
fashion. It is a little disconnected. The relation between cause and
effect is a little obscure. She is f