t,
high dogcart, drawn by a clever, raking-looking bay mare, and driven
by the owner of the freckles, the pointers, and the white hat.

"Bachelor, my dear," said Aunt Deborah as he whisked by, "and not at
all a bad-looking man either."

"How do you know he's a bachelor, aunt?" I naturally inquired.

"Common-sense, my dear," replied Aunt Deborah sententiously. "I judge
of people by their belongings. No lady could get into that dogcart
without dirtying her dress against the wheel; and if he had a wife,
that handsome bay horse would go with another in her carriage instead
of his. Besides, he wouldn't be so fond of his pointers if he had
anything else to care for; and above all, Kate," added my aunt
conclusively, "his silk handkerchief wasn't hemmed, and he'd a button
wanting in the front of his shirt."

All my life I have had a sinking at my heart when I have heard the
ring at that great Dangerfield front door bell. It was better in my
poor uncle's time, for he would have made any place lively; but since
his death the Park has relapsed into its natural solemnity, and I am
quite sure that if ever I _do_ go into a convent my sensations will be
exactly like those which I have always experienced when visiting Aunt
Horsingham. The moat alone is enough to give one the "blues;" but in
addition to that, the thick horse-chestnuts grow up to the very
windows, and dark Scotch firs shed a gloom all over the Park.
Dangerfield is one of those places that seem always to be in the
shade. How the strawberries ever ripen, or the flowers ever bloom, or
the birds ever sing there is to me a mystery. Outside there are dark
walls and yew hedges and cypresses, and here and there a copper beech,
with lawns that are never mown and copses that are never thinned, to
say nothing of that stagnant moat, with its sombre and prolific
vegetation; whilst within, black oak wainscoting, and heavy tapestry,
and winding staircases, and small, deep-set windows, and oddly-shaped
rooms, with steps at the door like going down into a bath, and doors
considerably up and down hill, and queer recesses that frighten one
out of one's wits to go into, form altogether a domicile that would
tame the wildest Merry-Andrew in a fortnight into as staid and sober
and stupid a personage as the veriest Lady Superior could desire. Aunt
Horsingham received us as usual with a freezing smile.

"How do you do, Kate?" said she, putting two of her cold bony fingers
into my hand. "I