me, much as these pretty faces would look on mere money treasures. Do I not remember how I used to look out at the world, as from a window, and punctually as the clock struck twelve every night, would put away work, fetch out the best novel of the day, light the soothing cigar, and read for two hours? How enjoyable was this time, almost too exquisite! But the whole was about to collapse like a card house.
How curious this dark country looks "roaring by" the window with the glare and flash from a station. The dull "burr" of the train, and the lights from the windows dappling the ground. As I look out I see the small dark figure of the guard creeping along outside. In this situation, in my lonely blue chamber, there is a sort of vacuity for thought, the world is shut out and the pictures of the past pour in . . . .
Was it not a very stately place—a new castle, grand stabling, horses and carriages in profusion, as I was shown into the great drawing-room, and received with welcome by the hostess. The guests were all out, shooting, riding, walking, and—so unfortunate she says—lunch was over. The young ladies were in the garden, where we would go and look for them. Stay; no, here they were coming, and past the mullioned windows, which ran down to the ground, flitted two or three figures, led by a little scarlet cloak. In a second cheerful voices rang out like music; the door opened, and she came tripping in. I did not see the others. I do not know who they were to this moment; but was it not then, my dear foolish Austen, that everything fell in like a house of cards—that the glory passed away from the books and never returned?
Her name was Dora—a pretty and melodious one; she was small, elegantly made, and with dancing eyes, bright sloe black hair, and a look of refinement about her small features I have never seen in any one else. She was full of spirits, and laughter, and delight. I recollect to this moment how I was introduced, with what a coquettish solemnity she went through the ceremony, and how, as I bowed, I felt something whisper to me, "This is an important moment for you, sir . . ."
She was daughter to a great House in the neighbourhood. From that hour she unconsciously entered into my life. She little thought how her airy figure was to hover about my study, and of how many day dreams she was to be the centre. So do the years go by; yet that dull blue cloth before me seems to open and draw away, and show me that gay noonday and that "morning room" at——House as distinctly as if it were yesterday. In my pocket-book I have at this moment a picture of her, done, not by the fanciful touch of memory, but by, perhaps, the less enduring one of the camera. It is hard to see by this light. Yes, there she is, a cloud of white sweeping behind her, flowers in her hand, with a soft inquiring look, half serious, and that seems on the verge of breaking into a smile, and spoiling the operator's whole work. So I saw her then, so I see her now. What if I was never to see her again! But this is too lugubrious! . . . There, the blast again—a flashing and flaring of lamps, a screaming of the whistles, and we rumble into a blaze of light, with buffets and offices lit up, and sleepy passengers waiting. One fellow in a white hat invades my blue chamber—a gross Belgian, with a theatrical portmanteau pushed in before him, and an air as if he were performing some feat of distinction. Away flutters the little figure, and from that moment the charm is broken, clouds of tobacco-smoke begin, wherein, I suppose—fitting back-ground—he sees pictures of his own gross déjeuner à la fourchette, or dinner, at the Trois Frères. A true beast, that presently grunts and snores, lives but for the present hour, and never lifts up his soul in gratitude or humility. There, he has got out, and we have done with him. I know now the secret of this dislike; he reminded me so of Grainger, the only evil genius I ever encountered in my life, and the evil genius that I vanquished. Rather, grace and strength came to me from above, to aid me to vanquish him.
I see the very street in the little town on that gay morning. How well I remember our all rushing to the window of the bank the day the regiment came in—when we heard their music, and I must have seen him—Grainger—walk by, his sword drawn, at the head of his company, and looked at him, perhaps with admiration. I little dreamed what he was to be towards me, later. I thought of their coming with pleasure; it would vary the monotony. I thought of how they would amuse her, perhaps, for whom a country town must be dull indeed. Later, I see soldiers walking about the place, the officers rather fine and
