ive you, before you
left, a few lessons in his trade."

"And we intend to stay here till we have arranged matters at home?"

"Ay, ay," said the postillion, "till the old people are pacified, and
they send you letters directed to the next post town, to be left till
called for, beginning with 'Dear children,' and enclosing you each a
cheque for one hundred pounds, when you will leave this place, and go
home in a coach like gentlefolks, to visit your governors; I should like
nothing better than to have the driving of you: and then there will be a
grand meeting of the two families, and after a few reproaches, the old
people will agree to do something handsome for the poor thoughtless
things; so you will have a genteel house taken for you, and an annuity
allowed you. You won't get much the first year, five hundred at the
most, in order that the old folks may let you feel that they are not
altogether satisfied with you, and that you are yet entirely in their
power; but the second, if you don't get a cool thousand, may I catch
cold, especially should young madam here present a son and heir for the
old people to fondle, destined one day to become sole heir of the two
illustrious houses, and then all the grand folks in the neighbourhood,
who have, bless their prudent hearts! kept rather aloof from you till
then, for fear you should want anything from them--I say, all the
carriage people in the neighbourhood, when they see how swimmingly
matters are going on, will come in shoals to visit you."

"Really," said I, "you are getting on swimmingly."

"Oh," said the postillion, "I was not a gentleman's servant nine years
without learning the ways of gentry, and being able to know gentry when I
see them."

"And what do you say to all this?" I demanded of Belle.

"Stop a moment," interposed the postillion, "I have one more word to
say:--and when you are surrounded by your comforts, keeping your nice
little barouche and pair, your coachman and livery servant, and visited
by all the carriage people in the neighbourhood--to say nothing of the
time when you come to the family estates on the death of the old
people--I shouldn't wonder if now and then you look back with longing and
regret to the days when you lived in the damp dripping dingle, had no
better equipage than a pony or donkey-cart, and saw no better company
than a tramper or Gypsy, except once, when a poor postillion was glad to
seat himself at your charcoal fire."

"Pray,