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slanting and tacking, like a knight on a chess-board. He had not made many steps before, turning his upper globule, without affecting his lower, he hurled back, in a cold business-like tone, the following interrogatory:

      “What are your vices?”

      “Saunders,” inquired the patient, “which are my vices?”

      “M'lord, lordship hasn't any vices,” replied Saunders, with dull, matter-of-fact solemnity.

      “Lady Barbara makes the same complaint,” thought Lord Ipsden.

      “It seems I have not any vices, Dr. Aberford,” said he, demurely.

      “That is bad; nothing to get hold of. What interests you, then?”

      “I don't remember.”

      “What amuses you?”

      “I forget.”

      “What! no winning horse to gallop away your rents?”

      “No, sir!”

      “No opera girl to run her foot and ankle through your purse?”

      “No, sir! and I think their ankles are not what they were.”

      “Stuff! just the same, from their ankles up to their ears, and down again to their morals; it is your eyes that are sunk deeper into your head. Hum! no horses, no vices, no dancers, no yacht; you confound one's notions of nobility, and I ought to know them, for I have to patch them all up a bit just before they go to the deuce.”

      “But I have, Doctor Aberford.”

      “What!”

      “A yacht! and a clipper she is, too.”

      “Ah!—(Now I've got him.)”

      “In the Bay of Biscay she lay half a point nearer the wind than Lord Heavyjib.”

      “Oh! bother Lord Heavyjib, and his Bay of Biscay.”

      “With all my heart, they have often bothered me.”

      “Send her round to Granton Pier, in the Firth of Forth.”

      “I will, sir.”

      “And write down this prescription.” And away he walked again, thinking the prescription.

      “Saunders,” appealed his master.

      “Saunders be hanged.”

      “Sir!” said Saunders, with dignity, “I thank you.”

      “Don't thank me, thank your own deserts,” replied the modern Chesterfield. “Oblige me by writing it yourself, my lord, it is all the bodily exercise you will have had to-day, no doubt.”

      The young viscount bowed, seated himself at a desk, and wrote from dictation:

      “DR. ABERFORD'S PRESCRIPTION.”

      “Make acquaintance with all the people of low estate who have time to be bothered with you; learn their ways, their minds, and, above all, their troubles.”

      “Won't all this bore me?” suggested the writer.

      “You will see. Relieve one fellow-creature every day, and let Mr. Saunders book the circumstances.”

      “I shall like this part,” said the patient, laying down his pen. “How clever of you to think of such things; may not I do two sometimes?”

      “Certainly not; one pill per day. Write, Fish the herring! (that beats deer-stalking.) Run your nose into adventures at sea; live on tenpence, and earn it. Is it down?”

      “Yes, it is down, but Saunders would have written it better.”

      “If he hadn't he ought to be hanged,” said the Aberford, inspecting the work. “I'm off, where's my hat? oh, there; where's my money? oh, here. Now look here, follow my prescription, and You will soon have Mens sana in corpore sano; And not care whether the girls say yes or say no; neglect it, and—my gloves; oh, in my pocket—you will be blase'' and ennuye', and (an English participle, that means something as bad); God bless you!”

      And out he scuttled, glided after by Saunders, for whom he opened and shut the street door.

      Never was a greater effect produced by a doctor's visit; patient and physician were made for each other. Dr. Aberford was the specific for Lord Ipsden. He came to him like a shower to a fainting strawberry.

      Saunders, on his return, found his lord pacing the apartment.

      “Saunders,” said he, smartly, “send down to Gravesend and order the yacht to this place—what is it?”

      “Granton Pier. Yes, my lord.”

      “And, Saunders, take clothes, and books, and violins, and telescopes, and things—and me—to Euston Square, in an hour.”

      “Impossible,' my lord,” cried Saunders, in dismay. “And there is no train for hours.”

      His master replied with a hundred-pound note, and a quiet, but wickedish look; and the prince of gentlemen's gentleman had all the required items with him, in a special train, within the specified time, and away they flashed, northward.

CHAPTER II.

       Table of Contents

      IT is said that opposite characters make a union happiest; and perhaps Lord Ipsden, diffident of himself, felt the value to him of a creature so different as Lady Barbara Sinclair; but the lady, for her part, was not so diffident of herself, nor was she in search of her opposite. On the contrary, she was waiting patiently to find just such a man as she was, or fancied herself, a woman.

      Accustomed to measure men by their characters alone, and to treat with sublime contempt the accidents of birth and fortune, she had been a little staggered by the assurance of this butterfly that had proposed to settle upon her hand—for life.

      In a word, the beautiful writer of the fatal note was honestly romantic, according to the romance of 1848, and of good society; of course she was not affected by hair tumbling back or plastered down forward, and a rolling eye went no further with her than a squinting one.

      Her romance was stern, not sickly. She was on the lookout for iron virtues; she had sworn to be wooed with great deeds, or never won; on this subject she had thought much, though not enough to ask herself whether great deeds are always to be got at, however disposed a lover may be.

      No matter; she kept herself in reserve for some earnest man, who was not to come flattering and fooling to her, but look another way and do exploits.

      She liked Lord Ipsden, her cousin once removed, but despised him for being agreeable, handsome, clever, and nobody.

      She was also a little bitten with what she and others called the Middle Ages, in fact with that picture of them which Grub Street, imposing on the simplicity of youth, had got up for sale by arraying painted glass, gilt rags, and fancy, against fact.

      With these vague and sketchy notices we are compelled to part, for the present, with Lady Barbara. But it serves her right; she has gone to establish her court in Perthshire, and left her rejected lover on our hands.

      Journeys of a few hundred miles are no longer described.

      You exchange a dead chair for a living chair, Saunders puts in your hand a new tale like this; you mourn the superstition of booksellers, which still inflicts uncut leaves upon humanity, though tailors do not send home coats with the sleeves stitched up, nor chambermaids put travelers into apple-pie beds as well as damp sheets. You rend and read, and are at Edinburgh, fatigued more or less, but not by the journey.

      Lord Ipsden was, therefore, soon installed

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