, that some
one less luxurious and stately, but more alert and energetic, may fill
his place. One look into the coach will undeceive you. Its chief
occupant is a lady, whose years do not exceed nineteen; and she is
evidently no native of Alemtejo, nor of Portugal; and might have been
sent out hither as a specimen of what a more northern country can
occasionally produce. While she looks out with deep, yet lively
interest on the scenery before and around her, you naturally gaze with
deeper interest only upon her. Her companion is her maid, some years
older than herself, who might be worth looking at, were her mistress
out of the way.

One of the orderlies, turning in his saddle, now points out the city
to the old man, who, in turn, leans over to the coach window, and
calls out, "My lady, there is Elvas!"

"And my father is in Elvas!" She leans eagerly out of the window; but
the front of the clumsy vehicle obstructs the view, and she calls out,
"Stop the coach, Moodie, and let me out. I will not go one step
further until I have taken a good look at Elvas."

The old man testily orders a halt. The footman opens the door, and the
lady springs lightly out, followed by her maid. Neglecting all other
objects in sight, she gazes long and eagerly at the city seated on the
hill. The interest she shows is no longer merely that of observant
curiosity, but is prompted by the gushing affections of the heart. In
Elvas, besides much new and strange, there is something known and
loved.

She now begins to question the orderlies as to the exact spot where
her father has quartered himself; but the old man interrupts her:

"You have traveled a long way, my lady, to get to Elvas, but you will
never reach it while you stand looking at it and spiering about it."

"Very true, old Wisdom. How comes it that you are always in the right?
Let us push on now, and in an hour," she exclaims, stepping into the
coach, "I will see my father, for the first time since I was
fourteen."

The coach moves on, but too slowly for her. Leaning out of the window,
and surveying the road, she calls out gaily, "Our way lies down hill,
Moodie, and they tell me that mules are so sure-footed that they never
stumble. Pray buy or borrow that long goad from the young gentleman in
the sheep-skin jacket. By skillful use of it you might mend our pace,
and bring us sooner to Elvas."

We will leave this impatient lady to hasten on to Elvas, whether
expedited or not by t