a London
dinner-table. How is it, I wonder, that while the dear child generally
speaks of 'ay and 'ouse, she invariably besmirches with the strongest of
aspirates the unfortunate village of H'Orton? Still, it would be easy to
correct this, delightful to educate her during our quiet evenings, to
read with her all my favourite prose writers and poets! And, even
supposing she couldn't learn, is classical English in the wife an
infallible source of married happiness? Let me penetrate below externals
and examine into the realities of things.

I spend most of Friday and Saturday in this examination without making
any sensible progress until supper on Saturday night, when I casually
mention to Annie, who is laying the table, that I am bound to leave Down
End on the following Monday, as term begins on the 15th.

"Must you really go? Well, we shall miss you, surely," says Annie. And I
am not mistaken; there is a wistfulness in her blue eyes, a poignant
regret in her voice that goes to my heart.

No, Annie! that decides me; I have suffered too much from blighted
affection ever to inflict the same pangs on another. I am too well read
myself in Love's sad, glad book to mistake the signs written in your
innocent face. Without vanity I can see how different I must appear in
your eyes to all the farm hands and country bumpkins you have hitherto
met; without fatuity I can understand how unconsciously almost to
yourself you have given me your young affections. Well, to-morrow you
shall know you have won back mine in exchange.

If Catherine could but guess what is impending!

April 13 (Sunday).--Annie in the maroon and magenta gown, carrying a
clean folded handkerchief and a Church Service in her hand, has gone up
to church.

The bells are still ringing, and I am wandering through the little Copse
on the right of the farm. This wood, or plantation rather flourishes
down hill, fills up the narrow, interlying valley, and courageously
climbs the eminence beyond. As I descend, it become more and more
sheltered. The wind dies away and the church bells are heard no longer.
I am following a cart-track used by the woodcutters. It is particularly
bad walking. The last cart must have passed through in soft weather, the
ruts are cut so deep, and these are filled with water from the last
rains. The new buds are but just "exploding" into leaf; here and there
the Dryades have laid down a carpet of white anemone flowers to dance
on; trailing br