train of callow younglings, were dabbling in every pool; little bands of straggling children were wandering through the lanes; every thing, in short, gave token of the loveliest of the seasons, the fresh and joyous spring. Vegetation was, however, unusually backward. The blossom of the sloe, called by the country people" the blackthorn winter," still lingered in the hedges, mingling its snowy garlands with the deep rich brown of the budding oak and the tender green of the elm; the primroses of March still mingled with the cowslips, pansies, orchises, the wild hyacinths of April; and the flower of the turnip was only just beginning to diffuse its honeyed odours (equal in fragrance to the balmy tassels of the lime) in the most sheltered nooks or the sunniest exposures. The "blessed sun" himself seemed rather bright than warm; the season was, in short, full three weeks backwarder than it should have been according to the almanac. Still it was spring, beautiful spring! and, as drew near to the old beech-wood called Barkham Dingle, we felt in its perfection all the charm of the scene and the hour.

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Although the country was unenclosed, as had been fully proved by the last half mile of undulating common, interspersed by old shaggy trees and patches (islets, as it were) of tangled underwood, as well as by a few rough ponies and small cows belonging to the country people, yet the lanes had been intersected by frequent gates, from the last of which a pretty, little, rosy, smiling girl, to whom I had tossed a penny for opening it, had sprung across the common, like a fawn, to be ready with her services at that lead ing into the Dingle, down which a rude cart-track, seldom used unless for the conveyance of faggots or brushwood, led by a picturesque but by no means easy descent.

Leaving chaise, and steed, and driver, to wait our return at the gate, Dash and I pursued our way by a winding yet still precipitous path to the bottom of the dell. Nothing could be more beautiful than the scene. On every side, steep, shelving banks, clothed with magnificent oaks and beeches, the growth of

centuries, descended gradually, like some vast amphitheatre, to a clear, deep piece of water, lying like a mirror in the midst of the dark woods, and letting light and sunshine into the picture. The leaves of the beech were just bursting into a tender green from their shining sheaths, and the oaks bore still the rich brown, which of their unnumbered tints is, perhaps, the loveliest; but every here and there a scattered horse-chestnut, or plane, or sycamore, had assumed its summer verdure: the weeping birch," the lady of the woods," was breaking from the bud, the holly glittering in its unvaried glossiness, the hawthorn and the brierrose in full leaf; and, the ivy and woodbine twisting their bright wreaths over the rugged trunks of the gigantic foresttrees, green formed even now the prevailing colour of the wood. The ground, indeed, was enamelled with flowers like a parterre. Primroses, cowslips, pansies, orchises, ground-ivy, and wild hyacinths, were blended in gorgeous profusion with the bright wood-vetch, the light wood-anemone, and the delicate wood-sorrel, which sprang from the mossy roots of the beeches, unrivalled in grace and beauty, more elegant even than the lily of the valley that grew by its side. Nothing could exceed the delightfulness of that winding wood-walk.

I soon came in sight of the place of my destination, a low-browed, thatched cottage, perched like a wild-duck's nest at the very edge of the pool, and surrounded by a little garden redeemed from the forest, a small clearing where cultivated flowers, and beds of berrybushes, and pear and cherry trees, in full blossom, contrasted strangely yet pleasantly with the wild scenery around.

The cottage was very small, yet it had the air of snugness and comfort which one loves to associate with the dwellings of the industrious peasantry. A goodly faggot-pile, a donkey-shed, and a pigsty, evidently inhabited, confirmed this impression; and geese and ducks swimming in the water, and chickens straying about the door, added to the cheerfulness of the picture.

As I approached, I recognised an old acquaintance in a young girl, who, with a straw basket in her hand, was engaged

in feeding the cocks and hens-no less a person than pretty Bessy the poultrywoman, who was celebrated for rearing the earliest ducks and the fattest and whitest chickens ever seen in these parts. Any Wednesday or Saturday morning, during the spring or summer, might Bessy be seen on the road to B., tripping along by the side of her little cart, hardly larger than a wheelbarrow, drawn by a sedate and venerable donkey, and laden with coops full of cackling or babbling inmates, together with baskets of fresh eggs-for Bessy's commodities were as much prized at the breakfast as at the dinner-table. She meant, I believe, to keep B. market; but somehow or other she seldom reached it: the quality of her merchandise being held in such estimation by the families around, that her coops and baskets were generally emptied before they gained their place of desti

nation.

Perhaps the popularity of the vender had something to do with the rapid sale of her poultryware. Never did any one more completely realize the beau ideal of a young, happy, innocent, country-girl than Matthew's daughter. Fresh and fair, her rosy cheeks mantling with blushes, and her cherry lips breaking into smiles, she was the very milk-maid of Isaac Walton; and there was an old-fashioned neatness and simplicity, a complete absence of all finery, in her attire, together with a modest sweetness in her sound young voice, a rustic grace in her little curtsy, and above all, a total unconsciousness of her charms, which not only heightened the effect, but deepened and strengthened the impression. No one that ever had seen them could forget Bess's innocent smiles.

At present, however, the poor girl was evidently in no smiling mood; and, as I was thridding with care and labour the labyrinths of an oak newly felled and partly barked, which lay across the path, to the great improvement of its picturesqueness (there are few objects that so much enhance the beauty of woodland scenery) and the equal augmentation of its difficulty, I could not help observing how agitated and preoccupied the little damsel seemed. Her cheek had lost its colour, her step was faltering, and the trembling hand with which she was distributing the corn from her basket could hardly perform

its task.

Her head was turned anxiously towards the door, as if something important were going forward within the house; and it was not until I was actually by her side, and called her by name, that she perceived me.

The afternoon, although bright and pleasant for the season, was one of those in which the sun sometimes amuses himself by playing at bopeep. The sky had become overcast shortly after 1 entered the Dingle, and, by the time I had surmounted the last tall jutting bare bough of oak, some of the branches of which I was fain to scramble over and some to creep through, and had fairly reached the cottage door, a sudden shower was whistling through the trees with such violence as to render both Dash and myself very glad to accept Bessy's embarrassed invitation and get under shelter from the pelting of the storm.

My entrance occasioned an immediate and somewhat awkward pause in a discussion that had been carried on, apparently with considerable warmth, between my good old host, Matthew, who, with a half-finished mat in his hand, was sitting in a low, wicker chair on one side of the hearth, and a visiter, also of my acquaintance, who was standing against the window; and, with the natural feeling of repugnance to such an intrusion, I had hardly taken the seat offered me by Bessy and given my commission to her grandfather, before I proposed to go away, saying that I saw they were busy, that the rain was nothing, that I had a carriage waiting, that I particularly wished to get home, and so forth-all the civil falsehoods, in short, with which one attempts to escape from an uncomfortable situation.

My attempts were, however, altogether useless. Bessy would not hear of my departure; Farmer White, my fellow visiter, assured me that the rain was coming down harder than ever; and the old matmaker declared that, so far from my being in the way, all the world was welcome to hear what he had to say, and he had just been wishing for some discreet body to judge of the farmer's behaviour. And, the farmer professing himself willing that I should be made acquainted with the matter, and perfectly ready to bide by my opinion, provided it coincided with his own,

I resumed my seat opposite to Matthew, whilst poor Bessy, blushing and ashamed, placed herself on a low stool in a corner of the little room, and began making friends with Dash.

"The long and the short of the matter is, ma'am," quoth old Matthew, "that Jem White-I dare say you know Jem; he's a good lad and a 'dustrious-and my Bessy there-and she's a good girl and a 'dustrious too, thof I say it that should not say it-have been keeping company, like, for these two years past; and now, just as I thought they were going to marry and settle in the world, down comes his father, the farmer there, and wants him to marry another wench and be false-hearted to my girl.”

I never knew that he courted her, maʼam, till last night," interrupted the farmer.

"And who does he want Jem to marry?" pursued the old man, warming as he went on. "Who but Farmer Brookes's fine daughter 'Gusta-Miss 'Gusta, as they call her-who's just come back from boarding-school, and goes about the country in her silks and her satins, with her veils, and her fine worked bags-who but she! as if she was a lady born, like madam there! Now, my Bessy

"I have not a word to say against Bessy," again interrupted the farmer; "she's a good girl, and a pretty girl, and an industrious girl. I have not a word to say against Bessy. But the fact is that I have had an offer of the Holm Farm for Jem, and therefore -

"And a fine farmer's wife 'Gusta Brookes will make!" quoth the matmaker, interrupting Master White in his turn. 66 A pretty farmer's wife! She that can do nothing on earth but jabber French, and read printed books, and thump on the music! Now, there's my girl can milk, and churn, and bake, and brew, and cook, and wash, and make, and mend, and rear poultry-there are not such ducks and chickens as Bessy's for ten miles round. Ask madam-she always deals with Bessy, and so do all the gentlefolks between here and B."

"I am not saying a word against Bessy," replied Farmer White; "she's a good girl, and a pretty girl, as I said before, and I am very sorry for the whole affair. But the Holm Farm is a

largish concern, and will take a good sum of money to stock it—more money than I can command; and Augusta Brookes, besides what her father can do for her at his death, has four hundred pounds of her own left her by her grandmother, which, with what I can spare, will be about enough for the purpose, and that made me think of the match, though the matter is still quite unsettled. But, Master Matthew, one can't expect that Bessy, good girl as she is, should have any money

"Oh, that's it!" exclaimed the old man of the mats. "You don't object to the wench, then, nor to her old grandfather, if 't was not for the money?"

er;

"Not in the least, replied the farm

"she's a good girl, and a pretty girl. I like her full as well as Augusta Brookes, and I am afraid that Jem likes her much better. And as for yourself Master Matthew, why, I've known you these fifty years, and never heard man, woman, or child, speak a misword of you in my life. I respect you, man! And I am heartily sorry to vex you and that good little girl yonder. Don't cry so, Bessy! pray don't cry!" and the goodnatured farmer wellnigh cried for company.

"No, don't cry, Bessy, because there's no need," rejoined her grandfather. "I thought, mayhap it was out of pride that Farmer White would not suffer Jem to marry my little girl. But, since it's only the money" - continued the old man, fumbling amidst a variety of well-patched garments, until from the pocket of some under-jacket he produced a greasy, brown leather book"since 'tis only Miss 'Gusta's money that's wanted to stock the Holm, why that's but reasonable; and we'll see whether your four hundred won't go as far as hers. Look at them dirty bits of paper, they are of the right sort, an't they?" cried Matthew, with a chuckle. "I called 'em in, because I thought they'd be wanted for her portion, like; and, when the old matmaker dies, there 'll be a hundred or two more into the bargain. Take the money, man, can't ye? and don't look so 'stounded. honestly come by, I promise you. All 'dustry and 'conomy, like. Her father, he was 'dustrious, and left her a bit; and her mother, she was 'dustrious too, and she left her a bit; and I, thof I

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