CHAPTER VII,

THE hour was about six, the weather beautiful, the season late in July. We were strolling quietly homewards across Grosvenor Square, admiring with much satisfaction the unusual greenness of its centre garden, the clear blue sky above us, and the many gay and well-dressed children who were enjoying their gambols within the iron rails; ruminating also, and with justice, on the many joys and comforts granted us to mitigate the bitter cares, amid life's dark and fleeting dream of wretchedness, as we watched the numerous splendid horses, handsome carriages, and fair and well-adorned occupants, as they rolled rapidly by, when our attention was more particularly called to an unusually well-appointed equipage, which had stopped at one of the houses in the square. The horses were noble animals, the servants remarkably well but plainly dressed; indeed, the carriage, the harness, and everything, was peculiarly striking, from its total absence of all unnecessary ornament, and yet complete elegance and distinction in general appearance; yet if the carriage, servants, and beautiful horses had caused us to turn our attention to them, how far more were we attracted by the appearance of the fair and elegant woman who so gracefully reclined within it, face to face with two as beauteous children as mother's eye

ever looked upon with fondness, or we ever had the pleasure of beholding. In fact, the whole picture, drawn as it is from nature, the high-bred mother, the lovely children, the horses, the whole combined, was a most perfect specimen of the wife, the mother, and the parent of England's most noble race. As yet no pride nor care sat on her fair, young brow, but the bright and beaming smile which lightened up her sweet face as she gazed on the loved ones near her, and the clear blue eye and winning grace of that gentle countenance, once seen could never be forgotten; indeed, the sweet and childish expression of the girl who faced us as we passed slowly on, can never be obliterated from our memory.

This is a true but simple sketch of an English mother in the higher ranks of society; and if we may judge from the many beautiful children which are now daily to be seen driving about during the London season, we would fain hope that fashion no longer forbids to those amenable to its laws the pleasure of proving to the world they love the companionship of their offspring. There may be, as doubtless there are, many pictures similar to that we have endeavoured to describe, daily to be seen during the season; and doubtless the same fond mothers, met in the parks by day, at night may be found partaking of scenes of gaiety and revelry, when these loved objects of their tender care are hushed in their infantine slumbers. Yet, be assured, there is many and many a bright face, many a noble heart, many a young and affectionate wife, who participates in the frivolities of fashion, from the nature of her position, far more than from the nature of her inclinations, and who can most fully appreciate the beauties and the delights of the country beyond the precincts of Kensington Gardens and the parks.

Ay! hundreds are there, who look forward with delight to the period which emancipates them from the supposed pleasures of a London season, to the real ones to be found on the flowery-heathered mountains of Scotland, the wooded parks of England, and the green hills of Ireland.—But mark the sequel of this rough sketch: rough, we say, for all was rough in memory, compared to the outline of those cherub faces we had looked on but for a moment for the first time, and, as we then believed, the last. And yet it was so willed that we should meet again— but where? in Grosvenor Square ?—No, surely not? Another London season had passed, and was forgotten; another bright summer had waned, and winter's rigours were over. The rich harvest of a second had been well nigh culled, when either duty or pleasure, but most probably the latter, found us in the extreme north-west of Scotland.

The hour was about the same, the season somewhat later, but the sun shone as brightly, and the scene was far, far more beautiful than Grosvenor Square, as, in company with a friend who like ourselves, loves to combine his sporting visits to different parts of the kingdom, with a glimpse of Nature's beauties wherever to be found, we were quietly walking our horses along the margin of a beautiful lake, the sides of which were overhung with luxuriant birch trees and mountain ash. All was so still, so bright, so beautiful, that as we looked on the rugged mountains, the green woods, and the clear waters near which we lingered, the busy world and the thronged city and the multitude might well be forgotten. The daily strife of man with man, the bitter sorrows of family contention, the agony of poverty, the sovereignty of wealth, the daily toil for bread, the follies of worldly pleasures, the darkness