lls, and
turned into a drive. And presently, winding through the trees, we were
in sight of a long, brick mansion trimmed with white, and a velvet
lawn before it all flecked with shadows. In front of the portico was a
saddled horse, craning his long neck at two panting hounds stretched on
the ground. A negro boy in blue clutched the bridle. On the horse-block
a gentleman in white reclined. He wore shiny boots, and he held his hat
in his hand, and he was gazing up at a lady who stood on the steps above
him.

The lady I remember as well--Lord forbid that I should forget her. And
her laugh as I heard it that evening is ringing now in my ears. And yet
it was not a laugh. Musical it was, yet there seemed no pleasure in it:
rather irony, and a great weariness of the amusements of this world:
and a note, too, from a vanity never ruffled. It stopped abruptly as the
negro pulled up his horse before her, and she stared at us haughtily.

"What's this?" she said.

"Pardon, Mistis," said the negro, "I'se got a letter from Marse
Lowndes."

"Mr. Lowndes should instruct his niggers," she said. "There is a
servants' drive." The man was turning his horse when she cried: "Hold!
Let's have it."

He dismounted and gave her the letter, and I jumped to the ground,
watching her as she broke the seal, taking her in, as a boy will, from
the flowing skirt and tight-laced stays of her salmon silk to her
high and powdered hair. She must have been about thirty. Her face was
beautiful, but had no particle of expression in it, and was dotted here
and there with little black patches of plaster. While she was reading,
a sober gentleman in black silk-breeches and severe coat came out of the
house and stood beside her.

"Heigho, parson," said the gentleman on the horse-block, without moving,
"are you to preach against loo or lansquenet to-morrow?"

"Would it make any difference to you, Mr. Riddle?"

Before he could answer there came a great clatter behind them, and a boy
of my own age appeared. With a leap he landed sprawling on the indolent
gentleman's shoulders, nearly upsetting him.

"You young rascal!" exclaimed the gentleman, pitching him on the drive
almost at my feet; then he fell back again to a position where he could
look up at the lady.

"Harry Riddle," cried the boy, "I'll ride steeplechases and beat you
some day."

"Hush, Nick," cried the lady, petulantly, "I'll have no nerves left me."
She turned to the letter again, holding i