This arrangement was greatly to the satisfaction of his uncle, though Godfrey shook his shoulders, and muttered that it would be “Confounded dull work.”

“I must introduce you, boys, to our new neighbors,” said the Colonel, next morning, at breakfast.  “But mind that you don’t pull caps for Miss Whitmore, our charming young heiress.”

“Who the deuce is she?” asked Godfrey.

“You knew that our poor old friend Henderson, of Hazelwood Lodge, was dead?”

“Dead!  Why when did he die?” said Godfrey.  “You never wrote us a word about it.”

“Well, I thought I had.  He died two months ago, and his property fell to a very distant relation.  A captain in the navy.  A man of small family and substantial means, who keeps a fine stud, a capital table, and a cross old maid, his sister, to superintend his household and take care of his daughter.”

“And the young lady?”

“Is a beautiful simple-hearted girl; rather romantic, and the very reverse of the old maid.  Aunt Dorothy is all ginger and vinegar.  Niece Juliet, like fine Burgundy, sparkling with life and animation.”

“By Jove!  Anthony, good news for us.  I give you warning, mister parson, that I mean to pass away the time in this dull place by making love to Miss Whitmore.  So don’t attempt to poach on my manor.”

“That’s hardly fair, Godfrey.  You ought to allow your cousin an equal chance.”

“The young lady will herself make the chances equal,” said Anthony, with a quiet smile.  “For my own part, I feel little interest in the subject, and never yet saw the woman with whom I would wish to pass my life.  To me the passion of love is unknown.  Godfrey, on the contrary, professes to be in love with every pretty girl he sees.”

“There’s no doubt that I shall win the lady,” cried Godfrey.  “Women are not so fond of quiet, sentimental, learned young gentlemen, like Anthony; his heart partakes too much of the cold tough nature of his father’s to make a good lover.  While he talks sense to the maiden aunt, I shall be pouring nonsense into the young lady’s ears—­nursing her lap-dog, caressing her pony, writing amatory verses in her scrap-book,” (albums were not then in fashion,) “and losing no opportunity of insinuating myself into her good graces.”

CHAPTER VIII.

    I see no beauty in this wealthy dame;
    ’Neath the dark lashes of her downcast eyes
    A weeping spirit lurks.  And when she smiles,
    ’Tis but the sunbeams of an April day,
    Piercing a watery cloud.—­S.M.

“So Colonel Hurdlestone’s son and nephew arrived at the Hall last night.  Reach me down Juliet’s portfolio, Dorothy; I must write the good Colonel a congratulatory note,” said Captain Whitmore to his solemn-faced sister.