ond our
income, must lead to distress and meanness, and end in shame and ruin.
In the morning, as they were riding away from Tusculum and talking over
their visit, the officers laughed heartily, and rallying Lord Colambre
upon his seriousness, accused him of having fallen in love with Mrs.
Raffarty, or with the ELEGANT Miss Juliana. Our hero, who wished never
to be nice overmuch, or serious out of season, laughed with those that
laughed, and endeavoured to catch the spirit of the jest. But Sir James
Brooke, who now was well acquainted with his countenance, and who knew
something of the history of his family, understood his real feelings,
and, sympathising in them, endeavoured to give the conversation a new
turn.

'Look there, Bowles,' said he, as they were just riding into the town
of Bray; 'look at the barouche, standing at that green door, at the
farthest end of the town. Is not that Lady Dashfort's barouche?'

'It looks like what she sported in Dublin last year,' said Bowles; 'but
you don't think she'd give us the same two seasons? Besides, she is not
in Ireland, is she? I did not hear of her intending to come over again.'

'I beg your pardon,' said another officer; 'she will come again to so
good a market, to marry her other daughter. I hear she said, or swore,
that she will marry the young widow, Lady Isabel, to an Irish nobleman.'

'Whatever she says, she swears, and whatever she swears, she'll do,'
replied Bowles. 'Have a care, my Lord Colambre; if she sets her heart
upon you for Lady Isabel, she has you. Nothing can save you. Heart she
has none, so there you're safe, my lord,' said the other officer; 'but
if Lady Isabel sets her eye upon you, no basilisk's is surer.'

'But if Lady Dashfort had landed I am sure we should have heard of it,
for she makes noise enough wherever she goes; especially in Dublin,
where all she said and did was echoed and magnified, till one could hear
of nothing else. I don't think she has landed.'

'I hope to Heaven they may never land again in Ireland!' cried Sir James
Brooke; 'one worthless woman, especially one worthless Englishwoman of
rank, does incalculable mischief in a country like this, which looks up
to the sister country for fashion. For my own part, as a warm friend
to Ireland, I would rather see all the toads and serpents, and venomous
reptiles, that St. Patrick carried off in his bag, come back to this
island, than these two DASHERS. Why, they would bite half the wome