THE Vale of Taunton, Somerset, is celebrated for its charming residences, its time-honoured families, its beautiful girls; and nowhere, some thirty years ago, were these attributes to be found in more felicitous combination than at Oak Hall, the seat of Archibald Merivale, Esq., major of yeomanry and deputylieutenant, throughout the wide archdeaconry. This will be readily believed if I can contrive to give but a faintly-faithful sketch of the Merivale family, as, grouped around its head one summer afternoon, they eagerly anticipated the contents of a letter, bearing the Cambridge postmark, that had just arrived.

Mr. Merivale, who might be a trifle under fifty, was a well descended, sufficiently wealthy, country gentleman and magistrate, of active habits, and considerable keenness of intellect. His self-estimate as to this latter quality was rather an exaggerated one; piquing himself, as he did, upon a profound knowledge of the world, and power of dealing successfully with it, in all its tricks, shifts, maskings, and devices: a stern, inflexible man, too, when he had once determined on any particular course of action; yet, withal, a thoroughly kind and affectionate husband and father, and considerate, as well as just, landlord and master. Mrs. Merivale, on the contrary, was one of the gentlest, most flexile of human beings, the fine impulses of whose womanly tenderness required, and yielded to the masculine support and firmness of her husband. They had three childrendaughters-at this time, of the respective ages of twenty, eighteen, and sixteen. Eleanor, the eldest, was a finely-formed person, with calm, brilliant, Diana-like features, and perfectly-shaped head, set magnificently upon the polished shoulders of a Juno. Agnes, the next in age, though nothing like so handsome as her superb sister, was a very attractive person; and her mild, kindly eyes, to my mind, possessed a fascination quite as effective as haughtier and more dazzling ones. Of Clara's beauty-scarcely disclosed as yet-I shall only say that its swiftly brightening dawn gave promise-more indeed than promise that in its perfect development would be in a high degree combined and blended the varied charms and graces of both her sisters. This, to the general reader, may seem a highly-coloured portraiture; whilst those who recognise and remember the

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family to whom I give the name of Merivale,-and there are many still living who will readily do so,-it will, I am quite sure, be pronounced to be but a faint and spiritless sketch of the three widely-celebrated Graces of Oak Hall.

"This letter, girls," Mr. Merivale, at length giving way to their importunity, is saying "This letter, girls; well, it is no doubt, as you say, from Francis Herbert; and stamped, I perceive, too late,' or it would have been here yesterday. Let me see,'highly delighted,'-'with the greatest pleasure,''have taken the liberty,' etcetera and so on. The, upshot is, young ladies, that my ward, Francis Herbert, not only accepts mine and your mother's invitation to pass a month at Oak Hall, but brings his and our acquaintance young Sir Henry Willoughby. Eleanor, love, surely you have not taken to rouge thus early :-there-there, don't be angry; the colour, I see, is quite a spontaneous and natural one. They will be here on-on Wednesday in time for dinner. Why, zounds! that is to-day. And as I am alive," continued Mr. Merivale, stepping quickly to the window, "here comes a post-chaise up the avenue. It is them, sure enough," he went on to say, after drawing up the blind. "Francis has his

body half out of the chaise-window, eager, no doubt, to obtain the earliest possible glimpse of his respected guardian- don't you think so, Eleanor? Hey! what, all suddenly vanished! I understand: the exigencies of dress and dinner have set both dame and damsels flying. But here come these interesting visitors."

The young men whose unexpected arrival caused so much commotion at Oak Hall will require a few introductory words only. Mr. Francis Herbert, but recently of age, and a well-principled, amiable person, though of somewhat rash and impulsive temperament, was the possessor of a considerable estate in the neighbourhood of Bath,-much improved during his long minority by the care of his guardian, Mr. Merivale, as well as of a large amount of personal property. He was, in fact, an altogether bon parti in the estimation of careful and ambitious mothers-equally, perhaps, with Sir Henry Willoughby, of "the Grange," near Taunton, save as respects the title-an advantage counterbalanced in some degree by the circumstance of the dowager Lady Willoughby being still alive, in prime health, and entitled by her

husband's will to fifteen hundred per annum, charged upon the son's inheritance. Sir Henry was three or four years older than Francis Herbert, and of a far more jocund, sanguine temper and disposition, which mood of mind was, however, somewhat toned down on the occasion of this visit by the fear that Herbert was as irretrievably in love with the divine Eleanor as he himself was. There were other differences between them. Francis Herbert was a ripe scholar, and had carried off the honours of a senior Wrangler at Cambridge University: Sir Henry, it was said through carelessness and inattention,--for he had good natural talents,-had been plucked at Oxford. When I have further stated that although Francis Herbert was unquestionably good-looking, Sir Henry was, by general admission, much the handsomest man, I shall have written all that need, in this stage of my narrative, be premised of either of them.

The days passed pleasantly away with the young people; and long before the expiration of the month, to which the visit of the gentlemen was limited, it was perfectly clear that Sir Henry was desperately in earnest with regard to Eleanor, and that the stately beauty vouchsafed him as much encouragement as a well-bred, modest maiden might. This was far from disagreeable to either of the young lady's parents; but that which greatly puzzled Mr. Merivale was, that Francis Herbert appeared to be perfectly resigned, or indifferent, to the success of Sir Henry's suit. "A whimsical fellow this ci-devant ward of mine," he would often mentally exclaim. "A twelvemonth ago, if I had not prevented him, he would have made Eleanor an offer in form; and now, I verily believe his weathercock fancy points to Clara! To Clara, positively,-a child in years, though, to be sure, somewhat womanly in appearance for her age. If it prove so-but it will be time enough to consider of a serious answer to such a proposal when it shall have been seriously made."

Two days before the expiration of the month, Mr. Merivale was detained rather late by his magisterial duties at Taunton, and finding, when he reached home, important papers that required immediate examination, he withdrew to the library without previous communication with his family or visitors. About eleven o'clock the girls came, one by one, to wish papa good-night; but, pre-occupied as he was, neither the bright flush which mantled Eleanor's patrician features, nor the flurry and confusion of manner so unusual with her, arrested his attention. The girlish delight and importance visible in the sweet countenance of Agnes passed equally unnoticed. Not so the stone-pale, yet gleaming and excited aspect, and nervous agitation exhibited by Clara. He was effectually startled out of his magisterial meditations; and the thought arose more vividly than before in his mind, of how changed and womanly she had become, in manner and expression, within the last two or three weeks. He was about to question her, but upon second thoughts refrained from doing So, kissed and bade her good night.

She hardly had been gone a minute when Mrs. Merivale came into the library. She, too, was excited, tearful,-yet smiling through her tears. Sir Henry Willoughby, fortified by a letter from his mother, had formally proposed for the hand of Eleanor, and been conditionally accepted - that condition, of course, being her parents' consent. "I would not have you disturbed," said Mrs. Merivale, "but I promised you should see his note this evening. Here it is, and also Lady Willoughby's very kind letter. There cannot, I think, be any doubt as to how we should decide?"

"None whatever, Emily. The girl has drawn a prize in the matrimonial lottery."

"And well deserves to have done so, Archibald,” replied the mother, with some quickness.

"No doubt-no doubt. She has my free consent and blessing. But there is another matter I am desirous to speak of. What can be the meaning of the agitation I observed in Clara just now?"

"I can hardly say: but I think Francis Herbert is in some way connected with it."

"I myself judged so: but have you no proof of this?"

"A slight one only. It seems that about dusk this evening, when the girls, and Sir Henry, and Herbert, were walking in the garden, Clara and Herbert became separated from the rest by a considerable distance. At last Eleanor bade Agnes seek them, as it was getting chilly and time to withdraw in-doors. Agnes obeyed, and as she approached the end of the garden, heard Francis Herbert speaking in earnest, agitated tones; what he said she could not distinguish, but hurrying on she found that he was thus addressing Clara, who in tears and almost fainting, supported herself with difficulty against the fountain there. The moment Agnes came in view, Herbert ceased speaking, Clara dried her tears, took her sister's arm, and murmuring some indistinct excuse for the emotion she could not conceal, walked with her towards the house, slowly followed by Herbert. I thought it best to defer questioning her, --but what Agnes witnessed can have, it seems to me, but one interpretation."

"No doubt; and a very absurd text it is, however interpreted. We shall probably be more enlightened on the matter to-morrow. In the mean time, as Sir Henry is waiting to see me, we had better adjourn to the drawing-room at once."

The party assembled at breakfast on the following morning at Oak Hall appeared very ill at ease and anxious, always with the exception of Sir Henry Willoughby, who, spite of his well-bred efforts to subdue himself to the level of the common-place world about him, was evidently uplifted in imagination to the starry floor, and breathing the intoxicating atmosphere of the seventh heaven, His beautiful betrothed-spite of herself-looked charmingly conscious, and the fugitive colour came and went upon her cheek with confusing distinctness and rapidity. Francis Herbert-pale, agitated, silent-would have seemed to be unobservant of anything around him, but for the frequent, half-abstracted glances he from time to time directed to the place which Clara-who had excused herself from appearing under the plea of headache usually occupied. Mr. Merivale was unusually grave and reserved; his excellent lady irrepressibly fidgety and nervous: in fact, the only person present, with the exception of Sir Henry, who appeared at all self-possessed and at ease, was Agnes; and even her calm serenity was in some degree disturbed by the manifest discomposure of her relatives. The signal for leaving the table was joyfully welcomed by every one sitting at it, and the apartment was cleared in a twinkling. Mr. Herbert rode out on horseback, and did not return till dinner had been some time over. When he entered the diningroom he found no one there but Mr. Merivale and Sir Henry, the latter of whom withdrew to the drawing-room and the ladies a minute or two afterwards.

Francis Herbert swallowed two or three glasses of wine in quick succession; and Mr. Merivale presently said, "You appear strangely agitated, Francis. May I ask the cause?"

"No one has so good a right to do so, and to be truly answered," was the instant reply. "The plain truth is, sir, and I hardly knew it myself till yester evening, that I respect, admire,—what dull, un