hatever had been the occurrences of her simple
day, whether there was sunshine or cloudy weather, or flashes of
lightning and bursts of rain, I fancy Miss Mackenzie slept after them
quite undisturbedly, and was sure to greet the morrow's dawn with a
smile.

Had Clive become more knowing in his travels, had Love or Experience
opened his eyes, that they looked so differently now upon objects which
before used well enough to please them? It is a fact that, until he went
abroad, he thought widow Mackenzie a dashing, lively, agreeable woman:
he used to receive her stories about Cheltenham, the colonies, the balls
at Government House, the observations which the bishop made, and the
peculiar attention of the Chief Justice to Mrs. Major M'Shane, with the
Major's uneasy behaviour--all these to hear at one time did Clive not
ungraciously incline. "Our friend, Mrs. Mack," the good old Colonel used
to say, "is a clever woman of the world, and has seen a great deal of
company." That story of Sir Thomas Sadman dropping a pocket-handkerchief
in his court at Colombo, which the Queen's Advocate O'Goggarty picked
up, and on which Laura MacS. was embroidered, whilst the Major was
absolutely in the witness-box giving evidence against a native servant
who had stolen one of his cocked-hats--that story always made good
Thomas Newcome laugh, and Clive used to enjoy it too, and the widow's
mischievous fun in narrating it; and now, behold, one day when Mrs.
Mackenzie recounted the anecdote in her best manner to Messrs. Pendennis
and Warrington, and Frederick Bayham, who had been invited to meet Mr.
Clive in Fitzroy Square--when Mr. Binnie chuckled, when Rosey, as in
duty bound, looked discomposed and said, "Law, mamma!"--not one sign of
good-humour, not one ghost of a smile, made its apparition on Clive's
dreary face. He painted imaginary portraits with a strawberry stalk; he
looked into his water-glass as though he would plunge and drown there;
and Bayham had to remind him that the claret jug was anxious to have
another embrace from its constant friend, F. B. When Mrs. Mack went away
distributing smiles, Clive groaned out, "Good heavens! how that story
does bore me!" and lapsed into his former moodiness, not giving so
much as a glance to Rosey, whose sweet face looked at him kindly for a
moment, as she followed in the wake of her mamma.

"The mother's the woman for my money," I heard F. B. whisper to
Warrington. "Splendid figure-head, sir--mag