answered Mrs. Martin, "why, I never expected he would."—"Not expect Mr. Brown?" returned Lucy, in a tone something between anger and surprise; "Not expect Mr. Brown? why I'm sure he'd come if he could, and you'd never ask the Lucases without him." "No, indeed, my dear, I would not;" replied Mrs. Martin, totally unconscious that her first answer had alluded to the subject of her own thoughts, not to the constant object of poor Lucy's—"He is a well behaved, sober young man, and very attentive to the shop; but why won't he come to-night?"—"He just rode up as I was standing at the gate with this little bottle of rose water, which he brought then, because, he said, he had to go to squire Thornbull's to see the cook, and he didn't think he could be back for tea do what he would—I'm sure I wish Mr. Lucas would attend his own patients."—"Well, Lucy, I suppose the rest will soon be here; do just set down the tray, my love, whilst I go and see if Peggy is doing the Sally Lunn right." Poor Lucy proceeded to her task with unwonted gloom, having first stopped to take one more smell of the rose water before she placed it on the ready book shelf; and so slow was she in her movements, that the tea table was scarcely arranged, when she heard her aunt accost her visitors out of the kitchen window, with "How d'ye do Mrs. Crosbie, how d'ye do Mrs. Lucas; beautiful evening; thank you kindly; I'm quite well, and Lucy's charming; pray step in Mr. Crosbie—give me your hat; Mr. Lucas, I'll hang your cane up by the clock here; sit down my dear Nanny, I hope your shoes are dry—indeed, I don't think they can be wet; we've scarcely had a drop of rain this fortnight.—Peggy! bring in the kettle."

And now, what with the disposal of the bonnets, the arrangement of the chairs, and the repetition of observations on the weather, and inquiries after the health of each individual present, the time was fully occupied, till the arrival of Peggy, with a bright copper tea kettle in one hand, and a well buttered, smoking hot Sally Lunn in the other, put an end to the confusion of tongues, and assembled the party in temporary silence round the tea table.—But Mrs. Martin's natural loquacity, added to her incessant desire to be civil, soon induced her to interrupt the momentary calm, and, while she spread her snow white pocket handkerchief on her knees, as a preparation for her attack on the Sally Lunn, she addressed her neighbour, the attorney, with—"Well, Mr. Crosbie, what did you think of our sermon last evening; it was a delightful one, wasn't it?"—"Yes, a very good, plain sermon, Mrs. Martin; but, with all deference to your better judgment, Mrs. Martin, I think your friend Mr. Temple doesn't show as much learning in the pulpit as he might do."—"Learning!" quoth his amicable spouse, "I never can believe that man is a learned man; I could make as good a sermon myself."—"Non constat, my love," replied Mr. Crosbie; "though I often think you would have done very well for a parson, you are so fond of always having the last word." Probably the gentle Mrs. Crosbie would have given the company a specimen of her talents for lecturing, had she not acquired a habit of never attending to what her husband said: she had therefore, fortunately, no doubt, during his speech, profited by the opportunity of overhearing Mrs. Martin's and Mrs. Lucas's discussion, respecting the appearance at church the evening before of the party from Webberly House, consisting of Mrs. Sullivan and her two elder daughters, the Miss Webberlys.—"I declare, I wasn't sure they were come down yet," said Mrs. Martin, "till I saw their two great footmen bring their prayer books into church, and their cushions; Mrs. Sullivan looks quite plump and well."—"Yes, indeed, she looks remarkably well;" answered the assenting Mrs. Lucas.—"Well!" retorted Mrs. Crosbie—"I think she is going into a dropsy; her face is for all the world like a Cheshire cheese."—"It certainly does look as if it was a little swelled," replied the complacent Mrs. Lucas—"Dear me," rejoined Mr. Lucas, "I must certainly call at Webberly House, and inquire after the health of the family; I thought they never left town till August: perhaps they are come down for change of air."—"And Lucy and I must pay our respects to them too, they are always so very polite."—"They are never very civil, I take it," said Mrs. Crosbie; "I believe, in my heart, they would never come near their country neighbours, but to show off their town airs on them."—"Well, for my part," observed Mr. Crosbie, "with due deference be it spoken, I think town airs should be laid by for town people, kept in usum jus habentis, for those who understand 'em."—"That's what you never could do, my dear," replied the lady.—Mrs. Lucas, as usual, slipping in an assenting nod to every successive observation from each person, while she as unremittingly attended to the tea and cake. "Well, I'm sure, at all events," said her daughter Nancy, "they are very genteel: what a lovely green bonnet the little Miss Webberly had on!—she's the eldest, I believe."—"I'm sure, if the bonnet was lovely, the face under it wasn't; the two together are for all the world like a full blown daffodil in its green case."

Notwithstanding Mrs. Crosbie had thus taken occasion to express her dislike of the family in general, she was not less ready than the rest of the little circle to pay her annual visit at Webberly House; and, as all were anxious to wait on the ladies in question, either from motives of civility, or interest, or curiosity, it was speedily settled, that the party should adjourn thither on the following morning. All particulars of their dress, their conveyance, &c., being finally arranged, the four seniors of Mrs. Martin's visitors sat down to penny whist, while she seated herself at the corner of the card table, ready to cut in, snuff candles, or make civil observations between the deals.

Lucy, and Nancy Lucas, strolled into the garden, ostensibly to pull currants, but, in reality, to talk over Mr. Brown, the apothecary's apprentice, and Mr. Slater's hopeful son and heir, whose professed admiration of Miss Lucas had lately been eclipsed by a flash of military ardour, that had induced him to enter into the Yorkshire militia. At length Mrs. Martin's fears of the damp grass and evening dew induced the two eternal friends to return to the parlour, where the fortunate attainment of an odd trick, by finishing the rubber, broke up the little party, who dispersed with much the same bustle with which they had entered. While Mrs. Martin pursued her retreating visitors as far as the white pales, with renewed offers of a glass of currant wine, hopes and fears relative to the company catching cold, and assurances that she and Lucy would certainly be ready before eleven o'clock for Mr. Lucas, with a profusion of thanks for his offer of calling for them in his gig.

CHAPTER II.

About eleven next day, a crazy machine, in the days of our grandfathers called a noddy, appeared at Mrs. Martin's door. In it was seated Mr. Lucas in his best black suit and flaxen wig, with his gold-headed cane between his knees, his hands being sufficiently occupied in reining an ill-trimmed carthorse, every movement of whose powerful hind leg threatened destruction to the awkward vehicle. The good humoured Lucy soon skipped in, and seated herself as bodkin; but to mount Mrs. Martin was a task of greater difficulty, as the gig was of considerable altitude, and the horse,