postillions than those who, in ragged jackets, greasy leathern breeches and huge jack boots, are urging them on.  Two men sit at ease on the coach box.  One, a tall young fellow, looks at a distance like a field-officer in a flashy uniform, but is only an English footman in a gaudy livery, who needs the training of a London winter or two, in a fashionable household, to make him a flunky of the first water.  The other, an old man, with a severe countenance, is plainly dressed, but, with a less brilliant exterior, has a more respectable air than his companion.  He, too, is the man in authority as, from time to time, he directs the party and urges them on in somewhat impatient tones.

If you are familiar with the country and the times, you may imagine that some British general officer has been so long in the peninsula, that he has adopted the style and equipage of Cuesta, and some other Spanish leaders, and fallen into their habits of slow and dignified motion.  You will think it high time for him to be sent home, that some one less luxurious and stately, but more alert and energetic, may fill his place.  One look into the coach will undeceive you.  Its chief occupant is a lady, whose years do not exceed nineteen; and she is evidently no native of Alemtejo, nor of Portugal; and might have been sent out hither as a specimen of what a more northern country can occasionally produce.  While she looks out with deep, yet lively interest on the scenery before and around her, you naturally gaze with deeper interest only upon her.  Her companion is her maid, some years older than herself, who might be worth looking at, were her mistress out of the way.

One of the orderlies, turning in his saddle, now points out the city to the old man, who, in turn, leans over to the coach window, and calls out, “My lady, there is Elvas!”

“And my father is in Elvas!” She leans eagerly out of the window; but the front of the clumsy vehicle obstructs the view, and she calls out, “Stop the coach, Moodie, and let me out.  I will not go one step further until I have taken a good look at Elvas.”

The old man testily orders a halt.  The footman opens the door, and the lady springs lightly out, followed by her maid.  Neglecting all other objects in sight, she gazes long and eagerly at the city seated on the hill.  The interest she shows is no longer merely that of observant curiosity, but is prompted by the gushing affections of the heart.  In Elvas, besides much new and strange, there is something known and loved.

She now begins to question the orderlies as to the exact spot where her father has quartered himself; but the old man interrupts her: 

“You have traveled a long way, my lady, to get to Elvas, but you will never reach it while you stand looking at it and spiering about it.”

“Very true, old Wisdom.  How comes it that you are always in the right?  Let us push on now, and in an hour,” she exclaims, stepping into the coach, “I will see my father, for the first time since I was fourteen.”