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was still gazing at the group of loiterers, without seeing them, when he became aware that an elderly woman plainly but respectably dressed, who was standing by the forewheel of the coach, was looking up at him, and trying to attract his attention. Seeing that she had caught his eye she spoke:

      "Gentleman! Gentleman!" she said-but in a restrained voice, as if she did not wish to be generally heard. "The young lady's address! Please say that she's not left it! For the laundress!"

      He turned and made sure that there was only one of the sex on the coach. Then-to be honest, not without a tiny flutter at his heart-he addressed his neighbour. "Pardon me," he said "but there is someone below who wants your address."

      She turned her eyes on him and his heart gave a perceptible jump. "My address?" she echoed in a voice as sweet as her face. "I think that there must be some mistake." And then for a moment she looked at him as if she doubted his intentions.

      The doubt was intolerable. "It's for the laundress," he said. "See, there she is!"

      The girl rose to look over the side of the coach and perforce leant across him. He saw that she had the slenderest waist and the prettiest figure-he had every opportunity of seeing. Then the coach started with a jerk, and if she had not steadied herself by laying her hand on his shoulder, she must have relapsed on his knees. As it was she fell back safely into her seat. She blushed.

      "I beg your pardon," she said.

      But he was looking back. He had his eye on the woman, who remained in the roadway, pointing after the coach and apparently asking a bystander some question respecting it-perhaps where it stopped. "There she is!" he exclaimed. "The woman with the umbrella! She is pointing after us."

      His neighbour looked back but made nothing of it. "I know no one in London," she said a little primly-but with sweet primness-"except the lady at whose house I stayed last night. And she is not able to leave the house. It must be a mistake." And with a gentle reserve which had in it nothing of coquetry, she turned her face from him.

      Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy! They were away, bowling down the slope of broad empty Piccadilly with the four nags trotting merrily, and the April sun gilding the roofs of the houses, and falling aslant on the verdure of the Green Park. Then merrily up the rise to Hyde Park Corner, where the new Grecian Gates looked across at the equally new arch on Constitution Hill; and where Apsley House, the residence of "the Duke," hiding with its new coat of Bath stone the old brick walls, peeped through the trees at the statue of Achilles, erected ten years back in the Duke's honour.

      But, alas! what was this? Wherefore the crowd that even at this early hour was large enough to fill the roadway and engage the attention of the New Police? Vaughan looked and saw that every blind in Apsley House was lowered, and that more than half of the windows were shattered. And the little French gentleman who, to the coachman's disgust, had taken the box-seat, saw it too; nay, had seen it before, for he had come that way to the coach office. He pointed to the silent, frowning mansion, and snapped his fingers.

      "That is your reward for your Vellington!" he cried, turning in his excitement to the two behind him. "And his lady, I am told, she lie dead behind the broken vindows! They did that last night, your canaille! But he vill not forget! And when the refolution come-bah-he vill have the iron hand! He vill be the Emperor and he vill repay!"

      No one answered; they treated him with silent British scorn. But they one and all stared back at the scene, at the grim blind house in the early sunshine, and the gaping crowd-as long as it remained in sight. And some, no doubt, pondered the sight. But who, with a pretty face beside him and a long day's drive before him, a drive by mead and shining river, over hill and down, under the walls of grey churches and by many a marketplace and cheery inn-yard-who would long dwell on changes past or to come? Or fret because in the womb of time might lie that "refolution" of which the little Frenchman spoke?

      IV

      TANTIVY! TANTIVY! TANTIVY!

      The White Lion coach was a light coach carrying only five passengers outside, and merrily it swept by Kensington Church, whence the travellers had a peep of Holland House-home of the Whigs-on their right. And then in a twinkling they were swinging through Hammersmith, where the ale-houses were opening and lusty girls were beginning to deliver the milk. They passed through Turnham, through Brentford, awakening everywhere the lazy with the music of their horn. They saw Sion House on their left, and on their right had a glimpse of the distant lawns of Osterley-the seat of Lady Jersey, queen of Almack's, and the Holland's rival. Thence they travelled over Hounslow Heath, and by an endless succession of mansions and lawns and orchards rich at this season with apple blossom, and framing here and there a view of the sparkling Thames.

      Vaughan breathed the air of spring and let his eyes dwell on scene after scene; and he felt that it was good to be young and to sit behind fast horses. He stole a glance at his neighbour and judged by the brightness of her eyes, her parted lips and rapt expression, that she felt with him. And he would have said something to her, but he could think of nothing worthy of her. At last:

      "It's a beautiful morning," he ventured, and cursed his vapidity.

      But she did not seem to find bathos in the words. "It is, indeed!" she answered with an enthusiasm which showed that she had forgotten her doubts of him. "And," she added simply, "I have not been on a coach since I was a child!"

      "Not on a coach?" he cried in astonishment.

      "No. Except on the Clapham Stage. And that is not a coach like this!"

      "No, perhaps it is not," he said. And he thought of her, and-oh, Lord! – of Clapham! And yet after all there was something about her, about her grey, dove-like dress and her gentleness, which smacked of Clapham. He wondered who she was and what she was; and he was still wondering when she turned her eyes on him, and, herself serenely unconscious, sent a tiny shock through him.

      "I enjoy it the more," she said, "because I-I am not usually free in the morning."

      "Oh, yes!"

      He could say no more; not another word. It was the stupidest thing in the world, but he was tongue-tied. Seeing, however, that she had turned from him and was absorbed in the view of Windsor rising stately amid its trees, he had the cleverness to steal a glance at the neat little basket which nestled at her feet. Surreptitiously he read the name on the label.

Mary SmithMiss Sibson'sQueen's Square, Bristol.

      Mary Smith! Just Mary Smith! For the moment-it is not to be denied-he was sobered by the name. It was not a romantic name. It was anything but high-sounding. The author of "Tremayne" or "De Vere," nay, the author of "Vivian Grey" – to complete the trio of novels which were in fashion at the time-would have turned up his nose at it. But what did it matter? He desired no more than to make himself agreeable for the few hours which he and this beautiful creature must pass together-in sunshine and with the fair English landscape gliding by them. And that being so, what need he reck what she called herself or whence she came. It was enough that under her modest bonnet her ears were shells and her eyes pure cornflowers, and that a few pleasant words, a little April dalliance-if only that Frenchman would cease to peep behind him and grin-would harm neither the one nor the other.

      But opportunities let slip do not always recur. As he turned to address her they rose the ascent of Maidenhead Bridge, had on either hand a glimpse of the river framed in pale green willows, and halted with sweating horses before the King's Arms. The boots advanced, amid a group of gazers, and reared a ladder against the coach. "Half an hour for breakfast, gentlemen!" he cried briskly. And through the windows of the inn the travellers had a view of a long table whereat the passengers on the up night-coach were already feasting.

      Our friends hastened to descend, but not so fast that Vaughan failed to note the girl's look of uncertainty, almost of distress. He guessed that she was not at ease in a scene so bustling and so new to her. And the thought gave him the courage that he needed.

      "Will you allow me to find you a place at the table?" he said. "I know this inn and they know me. Guard, the ladder here!" And he took her hand-oh, such a little, little hand! – and aided her in her descent.

      "Will you follow me?" he said. And he made way

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