this time close under the little scarlet geranium pots that stood on
the window-sill.

'Miss Chattesworth, eh?' he asked, in a sly, low tone.

'Oh, bother her, no. Do you remember Miss Anne Marjoribanks, that lodged
in Doyle's house, down there, near the mills, last summer, with her
mother, the fat woman with the poodle, and the--don't you know?'

'Ay, ay; she wore a flowered silk tabby sacque, on band days,' said
Toole, who had an eye and a corner in his memory for female costume, 'a
fine showy--I remember.' 'Well, middling: that's she.'

'And what of her?' asked Toole, screwing himself up as close as he could
to the flower-pots.

'Come up and I'll tell you,' and she shut down the window and beckoned
him slily, and up came Toole all alive.

Miss Magnolia told her story in her usual animated way, sometimes
dropping her voice to a whisper, and taking Toole by the collar,
sometimes rising to a rollicking roar of laughter, while the little
doctor stood by, his hands in his breeches' pockets, making a pleasant
jingle with his loose change there, with open mouth and staring eyes,
and a sort of breathless grin all over his ruddy face. Then came another
story, and more chuckling.

'And what about that lanky long may-pole, Gerty Chattesworth, the
witch?--not that anyone cares tuppence if she rode on a broom to sweep
the cobwebs off the moon, only a body may as well know, you know,' said
Miss Mag, preparing to listen.

'Why, by Jupiter! they say--but d'ye mind, I don't know, and faith I
don't believe it--but they do say she's going to be married to--who do
you think now?' answered Toole.

'Old Colonel Bligh, of the Magazine, or Dr. Walsingham, may be,' cried
Mag, with a burst of laughter; 'no young fellow would be plagued with
her, I'm certain.'

'Well, ha, ha! you _are_ a conjuror, Miss Mag, to be sure. He's _not_
young--you're right there--but then, he's rich, he is, by Jove! there's
no end of his--well, what do you say now to Mr. Dangerfield?'

'Dangerfield! Well' (after a little pause), 'he's ugly enough and old
enough too, for the matter of that; but he's as rich as a pork-pie; and
if he's worth half what they say, you may take my word for it, when he
goes to church it won't be to marry the steeple.'

And she laughed again scornfully and added--

''Twas plain enough from the first, the whole family laid themselves out
to catch the old quiz and his money. Let the Chattesworths alone for
scheming, with all the