told the gentleman she hoped he would make up his dinner with the second course.

On re-ascending to the eating parlour, Barney deposited his dish; and going round to Miss Julia's side, almost shouted,-" De cook, Miss, swears she niver hard a word o' de turkey, or de soup ayther, good or bad, an' hasn't made no pastry, 'cause she didn't know you expected company."

Many things may be accurately described, but the smile of Miss Julia Jones is not one of the number, it being a convulsion she never willingly allowed herself to indulge in; it was a smile of the surface only, without light, life, or any symptom of nature in or about it, and consisted of a muscular extension of the mouth, almost from ear to ear, accompanied by a contraction of the forehead, a withering frown stamped upon that region, which seemed to scowl vengeance and future punishment on the recreant lips for their unwilling expansion.

One of these smiles Miss Julia perpetrated, and sending the offender for a glass of water, tried to explain away his error, by informing the poet, that their "new man-servant" was not yet accustomed to their ways, declaring, it was so very droll! his speaking in the dining-room.

"I was obliged to send him out of the room," she continued, "lest I should laugh. He is an Irishman, Mr. Hopkins," she proceeded, "I dare say you did not understand a word he said; for my part, I cannot make out his dialect at all." "If I mistake not, we are from the same district," said the poet; "I was born in the county of Cork myself, and was revelling on the longunheard accent of my country."

"This booby must be taught to speak only when spoken to," said Julia, on the departure of their guest; "I really thought I should have fainted when he commenced his horrid explanations."

Grizzle and James were silent, for both knew it would only still more exasperate Julia, to be informed how completely she had exposed herself; and they always considered her temper quite bad enough, without any opposition on their parts to increase its bitterness.

CHAPTER XII.

The Lovers' Seat.

THERE were two individuals whose plans were completely thwarted by the sudden departure from Hastings of the Temples. These were Mr. Barton and his son. The former of whom, having arrived at the difficult decision that Miss Stapleton would, in all respects, be acceptable as a daughter-in-law, experienced a considerable accession of his customary irritability on the failure of any event he had fixed his mind upon.

His son, though he had been less certain of success, was even more disappointed by the circumstance which had interrupted their (as he hoped) growing intimacy. He could not be blind to the circumventing manoeuvres of Mrs. Temple to obstruct his progress with Fanny, and transfer his attentions to one of her own girls; and the observation, if it influenced him at all, rendered him more decided in his pursuit of

Fanny, and more sanguine of its result, since it proved to him, at least, that he was "worth catching;" a conviction by no means despicable in the eyes of a man who has mixed little in society, and is unprovided with fashionable effrontery.

On discovering their loss, both were secretly devising the means of repairing it; a matter in some degree perplexing, and which induced a more than usually silent breakfast. The old man, indeed, had the comfort of venting his illhumour upon the coffee, tea, rolls, and every article on the table, not excepting a plate of exquisite shrimps, which offended him by being too large, reminding him, as he said, "of prawns, without actually being prawns." The coffee scalded his throat. The tea was cold. His slippers had not been aired, he should get the gout; that villain, James, intended it, he could plainly see that, by his abominable neglect in this particular; and, in addition to all this, "What the devil held the newspaper?"

His son, who had swallowed unconsciously whatever came within his reach, without the alleviation of perceiving the faults of any thing, mildly suggested his father's watch might be too fast.

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Oh, of course-of course-of course my watch or myself-my watch or myself must be

wrong. Nothing can go wrong but fathers. When I when I-when I lived in the city, my watch was right, and I was right, for all I never saw the-saw the inside of a college, and don't pretend to know a co-co-cock lobster from a ca-ca-ca-camel; but young men are so-are so d-d-dev

"Are you sure your watch is going, Sir? I think you perhaps forgot to wind it up last night. If you observe the hands are -"

"Hey! Hem, going? Why it-it has stopped. Its your-your fault, Mr. Tom. What do you what do you think-what can you suppose, Sir, I gave you a learned edication for, if I did n't expect you'd have sense to-sense to remind me to wind my watch up?"

"Suppose we take a stroll, Sir; you will then see the time by the church clock."

"What-what-what do I care about the time, Sir. Why should I go out, to see nothing -to see nothing but a set of tallow-faced mortals walking for an appetite?"

"You will go through the market, father; surely you would not break through that good custom," said his son, kindly hoping they might meet with something to improve the present state of his father's temper.

"Cus-cus-custom. Ah, there's-there's sense