deal
of valuable time in deciding on a sweetheart. When they are ugly,
and haven't got the ghost of a chance of choosing, they snap at a
sweetheart, if he comes their way, like a starved dog at a bone.' Acting
on these excellent principles, our confidential agent succeeded, after
certain unavoidable delays, in addressing himself to the upper housemaid
at Thorpe Ambrose, and took full possession of her confidence at
the first interview. Bearing his instructions carefully in mind, he
encouraged the woman to chatter, and was favored, of course, with all
the gossip of the servants' hall. The greater part of it (as repeated
to me) was of no earthly importance. But I listened patiently, and was
rewarded by a valuable discovery at last. Here it is.

"It seems there is an ornamental cottage in the grounds at Thorpe
Ambrose. For some reason unknown, young Armadale has chosen to let it,
and a tenant has come in already. He is a poor half-pay major in the
army, named Milroy, a meek sort of man, by all accounts, with a turn
for occupying himself in mechanical pursuits, and with a domestic
incumbrance in the shape of a bedridden wife, who has not been seen by
anybody. Well, and what of all this? you will ask, with that sparkling
impatience which becomes you so well. My dear Lydia, don't sparkle! The
man's family affairs seriously concern us both, for, as ill luck will
have it, the man has got a daughter!

"You may imagine how I questioned our agent, and how our agent ransacked
his memory, when I stumbled, in due course, on such a discovery as
this. If Heaven is responsible for women's chattering tongues, Heaven
be praised! From Miss Blanchard to Miss Blanchard's maid; from Miss
Blanchard's maid to Miss Blanchard's aunt's maid; from Miss Blanchard's
aunt's maid, to the ugly housemaid; from the ugly housemaid to the
harmless-looking young man--so the stream of gossip trickled into the
right reservoir at last, and thirsty Mother Oldershaw has drunk it all
up.

"In plain English, my dear, this is how it stands. The major's daughter
is a minx just turned sixteen; lively and nice-looking (hateful little
wretch!), dowdy in her dress (thank Heaven!) and deficient in her
manners (thank Heaven again!). She has been brought up at home. The
governess who last had charge of her left before her father moved to
Thorpe Ambrose. Her education stands woefully in want of a finishing
touch, and the major doesn't quite know what to do next. None of