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than all his neighbours combined, as all their wealth appeared to consist of his money. Higher still in dignity, and the dispenser of all this wealth, was Mrs. Leslie, the mistress of Leslie Priory, and the wife of its proprietor. Of a size that should have ensured the stability of any bank, and a pomposity sufficient to maintain any consequence arising from riches, her broad face, like the reflection in a horizontal tea-spoon, seemed still further to expand with irrepressible good humour, and her magnificence to grow more elated by the repetition of unbounded hospitality. Immeasurable, however, became this amiable expansion of countenance, and profuse almost to extravagance was to be this friendly entertainment of guests upon the 15th of July, 1817, when returned to his home the only son, the idolized child of this warm-hearted couple. Fresh from the glories of the late short but eventful campaign of 1815, polished and formed into a perfect preux chevalier by a two year's mixture in the society of the French capital, beaming with the beauty, and bursting with the spirits of youth, almost of boyhood, it would have been hardly possible to have imagined an object more formed to justify parental pride than Horace Leslie, the king of the intended feast, the hero who had scarcely numbered eighteen summers.

The long expected day of the projected fête at last arrived, hot and calm as could be desired; the sky was uninterrupted blue, the sun unsparingly scorching, and the lawn most thirstily brown. There could not be better weather for the description of fête, for it was one of those entertainments upon which you are allowed to remain upon an unshaded, dusty lawn as long as the sun retains

its power; and when the evening becomes cool, and the guests are completely tired, you are permitted to rest your limbs and cool your body by dancing in closed apartments, the atmosphere of which is carefully warmed with a profusion of wax candles, and perfumed with a mixture of occasionally expiring oil lamps.

Mrs. Leslie was about by nine o'clock. By about, I mean she had been in every room, from the conservatory to the kitchen; in all the tents, the booth for the Bampford pandæans, the temporary cow-house for the syllabubs; had tried the spring of the boards for the village sword dancers, and had paced the exact distance (twice to be quite sure) between the targets for the Homesgrove Toxopholite Society; and had seen that the beef and plum pudding was "cutting up," for the country people, who were to dine at twelve; and the barrel of ale rolled out to a spot where the men could easily walk to it, and stagger from it. Everything was in order; not a contretemps, not a misfortune-except, indeed, that the heat had turned all the cream for the strawberries sour, and the long period for which the ice-house had been open, had converted that cool repository into a cistern of tepid water; but cream was always to be had in a dairy country, and ice always to be bought in a town like Homesgrove, and thus the rus in urbe, or rather urbs in rure, removed all grievances.

Mr. Leslie had been at the bank since seven to get his business done by twelve, determined, for that day at least, to stop payment after that hour.

At the door of the mansion, upon that morning, Horace met his mother; he, bright with the hope of enjoyment,

and the enthusiastic affection of an indulged son, she, flushed with unwonted exertion, and panting under the weight of flower pots for the entrance hall, and cut flowers to "grow spontaneously" in the jellies and blanc manges.

"My own dearest old lady," said the spoiled boy, as in his boisterous salute he upset one of the geraniums and half of the hoarded blossoms, destined "sweets to the sweet;""you look like the effigy on your clock of Summer stealing the flowers of Spring. Thank you for your scattered gifts," continued he, arranging a bouquet, “ this will be just the thing to make me welcome. I shall be back by eleven."

"Why, where can you be going this morning, my dear Horace?"

"Where? where but to Binfield, to persuade Colonel Arnot to forget his gout, and despise his velvet shoe, and to bring Helen to the fête."

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My dear boy," said Mrs. Leslie, more gravely, "there is no occasion to display such very great anxiety for the presence of Colonel and Miss Arnot, and I must seriously caution you against being caught by that girl's pretty face, for you know that they are as poor and as proud as last year's mayor."

"Oh, good bye, dear mother,” cried Horace, laughing and running away; "I do not intend to listen to a word against the power of pretty faces for the next three years; and as I am neither going to borrow money nor ask a favour, it matters little to me how poor or how proud they are."

Now I must in confidence reveal to my readers that this caution against the enslaving authority of beauty,

which Horace laughed at as premature, could not, in this instance, be justly accused of any unnecessary precipitancy, on the contrary, it might better have been taunted with being what is called in vulgar diction, "a day after the fair:" for, in fact, Horace and the lovely Helen had long since been aware of, and done full homage to each other's rare personal beauty, and though our hero's age was now eighteen, and nearly two summers less had ripened Helen to the bloom of sixteen, yet must I acknowledge that for some years past it had been thoroughly arranged between them that nature had formed them for each other. I entirely agree with a delightful authoress, that an early affection amongst little children is not so uncommon an event as to be considered a token of the precocity of some extraordinary genius; I not only believe that such childish preference is very common, but that where the seclusion of the country nurses these early ideas, their effect is often felt through life. This certainly was the case with the two of whom I write. But, indeed, it was hardly to be avoided that two beings so admirable should be aware of each other's mutual perfections.

I need hardly say that the united persuasions of Helen and Horace were sufficient to induce Colonel Arnot to sally forth from his usual seclusion; and that among the loveliest of the throng assembled on the lawn of Leslie Priory, none was so much remarked as Helen Arnot. The fête was very successful, and went off uncommonly well. There were few accidents. The sword dancers, to be sure, having had their share of the good cheer, and their turn at the ale barrel, before they were called upon to enact their pageant, soon allowed their pantomime to

rise into a real fight, and were consigned to the charge of the parish beadle; the toxopholites shot a little boy in the leg, and the cow that was going to assist in the syllabubs ; but these were trifles where so many gay and joyous hearts were determined to be amused.

"What a delightful day we have passed," said Helen, as she threw her pretty light bonnet on one side, and entered the ball-room with Horace, after having seen the sun set, the moon rise, the fireworks let off, and the variegated lamps grow dim; "what a charming day we have passed! you cannot have seen anything much more delightful than this, Horace, even at Paris."

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Indeed, I was present at no party there," replied Horace," that I liked one half so much, though I may have seen more brilliant fêtes."

"Oh! you must tell me about those splendid scenes, Horace; you promised to describe them all to me; what were they like?"

"Indeed, Helen, there is nothing so difficult as to describe a ball, they are all so similar: the only difference I ever saw, was a few more wax candles, a little better music, and a more luxurious supper. The only very new thing I was present at there was what they call a bal costumé. I should like to see you in a fancy dress; how beautiful you would look!"

"How do you know that? perhaps it might change me entirely, and then you might not like"

"It must be a very complete change to produce such an effect as that, dear Helen; but I do not think you could ever be much changed-at least, I hope not."

"Not towards you, Horace, indeed I could not: you

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