At the corner of the street a baker’s boy and a gentleman’s page were standing together, laughing at something which the latter held in his hand, and which his companion was perusing over his shoulder.

“Now, ain’t that good?” exclaimed he of the bread-basket, showing his teeth from ear to ear.

Bardon caught a glimpse of what they were reading. “My lads,” he cried, “I’ll pay you for that; give the magazine to me,” and he held out the price for the Number.

“It’s my master’s,” said the page, as if awakened to a sudden sense of the responsibility connected with green cloth and gilt buttons; and rolling up the coveted Number, he hurried on his way to make up for the time which he had lost.

The doctor stopped and reflected. “Mrs. Clayton, the major’s blind widow, she is likely to take in the —— Magazine. I have not called on the old dame for years, but shell not take a visit amiss. I think that the house with green blinds is hers, and I am certain to find her at home.”

Dr. Bardon was not disappointed this time. The blind old lady, who lived a dull and solitary life, was charmed to welcome an old acquaintance, and her visitor was yet more pleased to behold the desired periodical on the table half covered by the supplement of yesterday’s Times.

After the first greetings were over, and inquiries after his “sweet child Caroline,” (for the lady’s memory was not particularly clear as to the name or age of Cecilia,) the doctor seated himself by the blind lady, laughing loud to cover the rustle as he drew the Magazine from under the paper, and then impatiently turned over the leaves. His object was to read the article; Mrs. Clayton’s was to obtain a medical opinion gratis upon the maladies with which she was, or fancied herself to be troubled. She proceeded, therefore, quite uninterrupted by her supposed auditor, with a long story of rheumatism and relaxed throat, the various remedies which she had tried for these evils, and the dubious success of each application; the eager reader giving an occasional grunt of assent, to save appearances, until the invalid paused in her narration.

“Indeed, doctor, I’m beginning to think that the air of Pelton don’t agree with me; I begin to feel myself—

“Hanging between earth and sky, like the fabled coffin of Mahomet!” muttered the doctor, who in his interest in what he was perusing, had almost forgotten the presence of her whose faint, complaining voice sounded like a trickling rill in his ear.

“What is he saying about coffins and hanging?” thought the poor invalid. “It is very shocking to suggest such horrible ideas to a nervous creature like me!”

As the doctor did not seem disposed to add to his incomprehensible communication, Mrs. Clayton proceeded on with her melancholy story.

“Last winter my cough was so bad, that Mrs. Graham (you know Mrs. Graham, her daughter married a Bagot), she recommended me to take cochlico lozenges. I sent up all the way to London, there’s only one shop there that sells them, in one particular street, and I got a parcel of them down by the post. But I assure you, doctor, that they did me no good. I think that I must have caught a chill by venturing out in March; you know what the east winds are, doctor; I really had not a wink of sleep at night,—I actually thought my cough would have torn me to pieces.”

At this point the reader burst into an irrepressible chuckle of delight, and as he closed the Magazine exclaimed, “Capital! capital!” to the no small amazement of the sufferer. Her lengthened silence of surprise made Bardon,—whose hand was now on the supplement of the Times, aware that it was necessary to say something; and as he had a vague idea that her talk had been a series of complaints, he cried, hap-hazard, as his eye ran on the list of deaths, “Very bad! very bad! I’m certain that you indulge in green tea!”—

“Oh! well, I sometimes—”

“Can it be!” muttered Bardon, gazing with stern interest at one of the names which appeared in the gloomy column.

“Do you think, doctor, that there is much harm?”

“Death!” exclaimed Timon Bardon to himself.

“Surely you don’t mean it,”—cried the old lady, and the doctor was again recalled by her voice to what was passing around him.

“If you drink green tea,” he cried, starting from his seat and pushing the paper to the other end of the table, “I won’t answer for your living out the year!” and with a very brief good-bye, Timon hurried away, leaving the poor lady to complain to her next visitor, that Dr. Bardon was so brusque and so odd that he was just like an east wind in March, and that she was not in the least surprised that his practice was not extensive, as if he did not kill his patients with his medicine, he was likely to do so with his manner!

What was it that Bardon had seen in the Times that interested him as strongly as even the article written by Annabella at his own suggestion? He had seen the announcement of the death of “Mr. Auger, of —— Street and Nettleby Tower,” of the man who had ruined his prospects—who had wrested from the disinherited son the estate which his ancestors for centuries had held. Death should still the emotion of hatred, hush the voice of revenge; but it is to be feared that in this instance the advertisement, casually seen, rather increased than diminished the stern satisfaction felt by the vindictive old man. It seemed to Bardon as if he were triumphing at once over a dead and a living foe. As he proceeded on his long walk homewards, he certainly never questioned himself as to his lack of the charity which rejoiceth not in iniquity, or he would not have revelled as he did in the idea that it was he who had incited the countess to take such petty revenge on her husband. Nor did Bardon, as he reflected on the death of his hated supplanter, recall to mind the warning of the royal Preacher, Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thy heart be glad when he stumbleth, or he would scarcely have muttered to himself with a gloomy smile, that six feet of earth would be now estate large enough for the late owner of Nettleby Tower.

Notwithstanding the engrossing nature of his thoughts, the doctor on his return to his home could not avoid feeling the way long and the weather oppressive. He could scarcely drag on his weary limbs when at length he reached the little gate of the garden which surrounded Mill Cottage.

Cecilia ran out to meet him in a flutter of excitement and joy.

“O! Papa! only guess who has come here while you were away!”

“How can I tell!” said the tired man sharply.

“The countess! the dear delightful countess herself, and she says—” but Doctor Bardon waited to hear no more, and forgetful of fatigue, hurried into the cottage.

Annabella came forward to meet him, and in a few brief sentences explained to him her situation, and her wish to remain no longer under the roof of her uncle the vicar. As she had expected, the doctor gave her a cordial welcome, and pressed her to remain at his home for as long a period as might suit her convenience. He was proud to be able to exercise hospitality, and though he would never have pleaded guilty to the charge, was by no means insensible to the honour of entertaining a woman distinguished both by her rank and her talents. Would it not also be an additional mortification to the detested earl, to know that the Countess of Dashleigh was the guest at a cottage scarcely larger than his gamekeeper’s lodge!

As for Cecilia, she was in ecstasies. The presence of a real countess seemed to her actually to glorify the little abode, and her only misery was the difficulty of providing suitable accommodation for such an illustrious visitor. The cottage she had often termed “nothing but a bandbox,” and though poor Miss Bardon was willing to put herself into any straits, empty out all her drawers, squeeze herself and her wardrobe into any corner, it required a wonderful amount of ingenuity to make the titled guest and her maid tolerably comfortable in the tiny tenement. Cecilia not only used every effort to stimulate to exertion her old deaf domestic, but herself worked hard in secret to prepare her own room for the countess. She ruthlessly sacrificed a white muslin robe for the adornment of the toilette table, cut up her best bow to loop it up with ribbon, and even ventured to invade her father’s garden to ornament the apartment with flowers.

Annabella had little idea of the amount of trouble and excitement which she was causing, nor how heavily the expense of hospitality would press on her proud but poor entertainers. While the countess was conversing in the sitting room with the doctor, Bates arrived with her lady’s boxes, and was ordered to carry them up to her apartment. The maid surprised poor Cecilia on her knees, industriously stitching up a hole in a worn-out drugget, her face flushed and heated with the unwonted occupation. Miss Bardon started up in some confusion, her pride deeply mortified at being found in a position, and engaged in an employment so unbefitting a fine lady, which it was her ambition always to appear.

Bates looked round with wondering contempt on the miserable hovel, as she deemed it, which her young mistress had chosen in preference to the luxurious apartments of Dashleigh Hall. The lady’s maid had serious doubts as to whether she could so compromise her own dignity as to remain in a house where no “footman was kept.” To share a pigeon-hole seven feet square with a deaf and stupid maid-of-all-work, who could not even listen to her gossip,—did ever devoted lady’s maid submit to such hardship before! Annabella, on her part, found fault with nothing, never appeared to notice any difficulties, and accommodated herself to cottage life as if she had been accustomed to it from her childhood.

“There is not a particle of pride in her!” exclaimed the admiring Cecilia, as she had done upon a previous occasion.