amazement not unmingled with admiration, and wonder how on earth he does it. His face seems to be made of india-rubber, and takes every inflection and shade of ill-temper and uncharitableness. I believe if we watched him till doomsday we should see some fresh contortion every day. He does not confine himself to looks though—he acts. A dish-cover in his hand becomes a shuttle-cock that the battledore of his wrath may send into the grate, or out of the window, or after James's rapidly vanishing calves; it is impossible to tell where, we can only watch his eye and speculate as to the probable direction it will take. To-day, however, there are no such compliments flying; and, if Mr. Skipworth does now and then intercept a diabolical look intended for Simpkins, what then? He is used to the governor's little ways.
And now dessert is on the table, and papa is telling the reverend gentleman (who occasionally hunts on a cob as fat as himself) a pleasing little anecdote about a parson who came to grief last winter in ———shire. Taking an awkward jump, he rolled off his horse into a pond, from whence he piteously besought a passing squire to extricate him. "D—n you!" cried the squire dashing his rowels into his horse's sides, "lie where you are! You won't be wanted till next Sunday."
Mr. Skipworth, who, in his travels across country, has explored every pond, ditch, and brook for ten miles round, utters a feeble "Ha, ha, ha!" at which the governor, who is one of the pluckiest and hardest riders in the county chuckles unkindly. Blessed hunting, that in winter takes him from the bosom of his family twice a week; and oh! long-tarrying first of September, when will you come and set his feet among the stubble? We are eating strawberries, that, to my fancy, always smell and look so much more delicious than they taste. A jerk of papa's thumb presently dismisses us with our mouths half filled, and we walk
