eemed to me of good augury.

My friends Temple and Heriot were among the Riversley guests at
Christmas. We rode over to John Thresher's, of whom we heard that the
pretty Mabel Sweetwinter had disappeared, and understood that suspicion
had fallen upon one of us gentlemen. Bob, her brother, had gone the way
of the bravest English fellows of his class-to America. We called on the
miller, a soured old man. Bob's evasion affected him more than Mabel's,
Martha Thresher said, in derision of our sex. I was pained to hear from
her that Bob supposed me the misleader of his sister; and that he had,
as she believed, left England, to avoid the misery of ever meeting me
again, because he liked me so much. She had been seen walking down the
lanes with some one resembling me in figure. Heriot took the miller's
view, counting the loss of one stout young Englishman to his country of
far greater importance than the escapades of dozens of girls, for which
simple creatures he had no compassion: he held the expression of it a
sham. He had grown coxcombical. Without talking of his conquests, he
talked largely of the ladies who were possibly in the situation of
victims to his grace of person, though he did not do so with any
unctuous boasting. On the contrary, there was a rather taking undertone
of regret that his enfeebled over-fat country would give her military
son no worthier occupation. He laughed at the mention of Julia Bulsted's
name. 'She proves, Richie, marriage is the best of all receipts for
women, just as it's the worst for men. Poor Billy Bulsted, for instance,
a first-rate seaman, and his heart's only half in his profession since
he and Julia swore their oath; and no wonder,--he made something his own
that won't go under lock and key. No military or naval man ought ever to
marry.'

'Stop,' said Temple, 'is the poor old country--How about continuing the
race of heroes?'

Heriot commended him to rectories, vicarages, and curates' lodgings
for breeding grounds, and coming round to Julia related one of the racy
dialogues of her married life. 'The saltwater widow's delicious. Billy
rushes home from his ship in a hurry. What's this Greg writes me?--That
he 's got a friend of his to drink with him, d' ye mean, William?--A
friend of yours, ma'am.--And will you say a friend of mine is not a
friend of yours, William?--Julia, you're driving me mad!--And is
that far from crazy, where you said I drove you at first sight of me,
William? Bac