junction with her sister, in hastening forward the repairs of Oakham House, that Mrs. Rowley might take possession of it as soon as possible, and enable the Cosies to return to their cottage.

Thus there was no want of activity on both banks of the stream, though the doings on the Rowley side were so different from those of the other; but Foxden was making less and less noise every day, while the Meadows was talked of more and more.

More than one tourist in Cornwall that autumn was diverted from his track by the celebrity of Mrs. Rowley's undertakings and improvements; for fame, never very particular about the strict truth, gave her credit not only for her own doings, but for all Mr. Cosie's georgical and bucolical experiments on his own farm, which was not part of the Evelyn property at all. Some of these rambling people, having nothing better to do when the day was over, were probably answerable for the high-flown paragraphs which appeared from time to time in the local newspapers, speaking of Mrs. Rowley and her enterprises, sometimes even with allusions to her person, with an exuberance of laudatory epithets enough to make the most flourishing penny-a-liner jealous. In one she was described as something between Lord Byron's gorgeous butterfly and Dr. Watts's busy bee: in another she was compared to Ceres herself; and the writer gracefully added that he would have presented her with a wreath of poppies for her golden hair, only that he felt they would not go very well with her widow's cap.

At most of these absurdities Mrs. Rowley, of course, only laughed; but some of them provoked her naturally enough; for she did not want to be shown up before the public as "the mirror of English gentlewomen," or "as a pattern to her sex."

"People exclaim," she said one day to the girls, on reading a panegyric more extravagant and offensive than usual, in which she was elegantly described as "the Man of Ross in petticoats,"—" what a noise Mrs. Rowley is making, when it is themselves who make the noise about Mrs. Rowley. And then the absurd exaggeration of these idle scribblers! If I plant a few trees, it is a forest; if I only blast a few rocks in a field, I am changing the face of nature; if I give a poor woman a loaf or an old gown, I am feeding the hungry and clothing the naked all over the shire. It ought really to be actionable to make a lady notorious in this way. If I can punish a man for abusing me, why not for making me ridiculous with his fulsome eulogies? I don't advertise myself, and I don't see why it should be lawful for any one to advertise me."

“Or, I think you might add, your daughters either," said Susan, who had read the paragraph to the end, which Mrs. Rowley had not had patience to do-"as the charming heiresses who share the toils and triumphs of the enterprising and fascinating widow.”

"It is really too bad," said Mrs. Rowley, laughing in spite of her inclination to be serious.

"You see, mamma," said Fanny, "you have not all the compliments to yourself."

Upon one occasion only did Mrs. Rowley incur some little personal annoyance from the inquisitive people whom her unavoidable notoriety brought to the neighbourhood. To this incident, although only episodical, let us devote a few pages before we come to the critical events which were soon to turn the situation of affairs topsyturvy.

CHAPTER XLIII.

IN WHICH A SUITOR FROM AUSTRALIA THROWS HIMSELF AT THE

WIDOW'S FEET.

WHEN Mrs. Upjohn's gay circle rather suddenly broke up (of which more anon) Mr. Pickford had been one of the earliest deserters. He was distantly related, as we have said, to Mrs. Rowley, and had not only called on her soon after her arrival, but had obligingly proposed to come and spend a week with her before he left the country. She had rather a liking for Paul, who was a pleasant, easy-going fellow, and she accepted his offer graciously, though she thought it cool, and shrewdly suspected that his object was to get into the good graces of one of her daughters. Mrs. Rowley, however, was not uneasy on that score; and Paul, while he felt his way with the girls, had the tact, not only to make himself agreeable, but useful, while he remained. One of the services he occasionally rendered was to act as a buffer between the widow and the sort of troublesome people mentioned at the close of the preceding chapter.

One of these fâcheux, who proved the most pertinacious, but who also in return afforded some amusement, was the purchaser of the house in London, which the reader may remember that Mr. Marjoram sold for the late Mr. Rowley in the spring, on which occasion the solicitor made adroit use of Mrs. Rowley's portrait. The name of this personage was Sir Peter Cheesy, a bachelor on the wrong side of fifty, who began life as a small provision-dealer at Gloucester, emigrated to Australia, made a good lump of money there, and, returning to his native town, rose to the dignity of mayor, and got knighted on the occasion of a royal progress. Sir Peter soon forgot all about the picture, but happening one day in "the Fall," as the Americans say, to light on one of the newspapers in which Mrs. Rowley was trumpeted in the way we have seen, it recalled the circumstance to his memory, and being on the look out for a wife, as

well as for a good investment for some spare capital, he was just in the mood to be seduced by so glowing a description. In a word, after rigging himself out at a Bond Street tailor's, where he afforded diversion enough to pay for his clothes, he set off for Cornwall. He was a short pursy man, with a round figure and chubby face, not unlike the late Mr. Robson in the part of Zephyr. He got down to Oakham safe enough, but he got into the first of his troubles the very day he arrived, for inquiring at the inn for the residence of "the great lady" of the neighbourhood, he was directed by an Upjohnite waiter to Foxden. Mrs. Upjohn, who was always happy to receive visits from titled personages, no sooner saw Sir Peter's card than she desired the servant to show him in, and she must have been very unreasonable not to have been satisfied with the bows and obeisances with which he presented himself before her. Upon his part, the knight was even more delighted at the cordial and respectful reception vouchsafed him by the great lady.

But the very first compliment Sir Peter fired off (most probably borrowed from the newspaper) spoiled all. Mrs. Upjohn rose abruptly, almost as soon as she was seated, grew as red as the moon in a fog, and cut him short in her usual refined way, when there was nobody present to put her on her lady-like behaviour.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, "but you are in the wrong box. I'm not the person you take me for. We don't brew here, I assure you. I'll order my servant to direct you to Mrs. Rowley's establishment."

Poor Sir Peter was confounded by this tirade, and almost tumbled out of the room, making all manner of inarticulate apologies for his mistake.

He had hardly recovered from his confusion when he reached the cottage, to be discomfited again, though in a different way. There he saw Miss Secretary Penrose, who shook her head in an awful way; told him that as to seeing Mrs. Rowley, it was quite out of the question, and referred him to Mr. Cosie at the village.

At the village, both that day and the next, Sir Peter Cheesy was equally unlucky, so there was nothing to be done but to live in hope, and meanwhile lounge about by himself, and see as much as he could without anybody's assistance. He passed some days in this way, always expecting to come across "the fascinating widow" in his perambulations, which he never had the luck to do. He was beginning to be a bore, however, sometimes waylaying her, sometimes taking observations of her with a pocket telescope from the rocks and eminences commanding a view of the Meadows. At last Mr. Pickford threw himself in his way in hopes of getting rid of him; but he soon forgot all about that, he was so diverted by the gushing simplicity with which Sir Peter stated his objects and his determination to persevere until he had the honour of seeing "the

paragon of her sex and the mirror of English gentlewomen." It now occurred to Paul, both for his own amusement and Mrs. Rowley's security, to take Sir Peter in tow himself, and tire him well out, which promised to be an easy matter; for, as men of his figure commonly are, he was a little asthmatic or short-winded. Paul first took him to the brewery, and made him drowsy with tasting the different ales and beers, astonishing him at the same time by his account of the profits.

"It pays a fabulous percentage," said Paul, intrepidly.

"A fabulous percentage!" repeated Sir Peter; "I'll take a note of that-wonderful woman!"

"I should say so," said Paul, while Sir Peter entered the veracious statement in his memoranda.

"And is there really no chance of seeing her, Mr. Beckford ?"

"Pickford, if you please. None whatever, Sir Peter-in fact, Mrs. Rowley is a lady, if it is not profane to say it, who is only to be seen like Providence-in her works."

"Bless my soul, Mr. Pickwick!—do you say so? Like Providence! I'll take a note of that."

"Do, by all means," said Paul, with a gravity that did him credit, "but allow me to observe that I have not the honour to be Mr. Pickwick-Pickford, if you please."

Paul then carried off his victim into the open country, to show him the cottages and the farming, and kept him in a state of unintermitting amazement, not so much with the facts, you may suppose, as with Paul's comments upon them. The pencil and notebook were not a moment idle.

"Just look at those sheep, Sir Peter; you ought to be a judge of sheep, coming from Australia,—did you ever see such sheep in your life? The mutton is the best in the world. No one who has once tasted it ever eats venison afterwards."

Sir Peter's lips watered as he asked the name of the breed.

"A breed of her own, Sir Peter; she is crossing her Southdowns with Cotswolds."

"Crossing her Southdowns with Cotswolds!"

Perhaps there was not a note taken of that! But it was the last Sir Peter took that day; for he was dog-tired, and obliged to entreat Mr. Pickford to conduct him back to the inn by the shortest way.

But though his legs failed, his curiosity was unabated, and at parting, he implored his cicerone to give him the benefit of his guidance for one day more, adding, as the thought suddenly struck him, that perhaps if Mrs. Rowley knew who he was, and that he had bought her house, she would not refuse him an interview.

"Remind her of that, if you please, my dear sir-more by token, I stickled for the furniture into the bargain."

"You didn't get it, I rather think?" said Paul.

"Not so much as a kitchen chair. She was right, sir, quite right; but so was I, you know, to hold out for it;-business is business, that's my motto."

"Let me tell you," said Paul, "if you had acted otherwise, you would for ever have forfeited her esteem, and it would be utterly in vain to solicit an audience for you. Now I feel disposed to try, for you seem to me to be just the sort of man she likes."

"I can't go with you

Sir Peter was as proud as a peacock. "But you must see the mines," said Paul. to-morrow, but you can go very well by yourself. Go early, by the first light; see them thoroughly, and mind, go down into them, into every chamber. She likes that. And come up afterwards to the cottage, and I take on myself to ask you to lunch with her at one o'clock."

"This is kind of you, indeed!” cried the little man.

Paul then instructed him how to get to the mines, which were on an island behind Arnaud's.

"Is the passage rough ?" inquired Sir Peter, rather anxiously. "A ripple, perhaps but so short. Portsmouth to Ryde, that's all." Mrs. Rowley thought Mr. Pickford had taken too great a liberty; but she was not very angry about it, as Sir Peter had paid a round sum for the house.

But when the next day came, no Sir Peter; luncheon came, and was over, but no Sir Peter.

"The voyage probably disagreed with him," said Susan.

"The day was too breezy for Sir Peter Cheesy," said Fanny. "And made him queasy," added Mrs. Rowley.

Later in the day Mr. Pickford strolled down to the village to inquire what had become of the knight, though he rather suspected the cause of his non-appearance.

"Ask him for to-morrow, if he has come to grief," said Mrs. Rowley, good-naturedly.

He had come to grief, indeed, and the passage was the least of it. The poor little man came up out of the mine, which was very wet, not only thoroughly drenched, but all crusted with yellow slime -hands and face, new clothes and everything.

When Paul was shown to his room, he found him standing at the fire in his shirt-sleeves, and ruefully contemplating the disastrous state of a superb morning suit of velveteen which he had put on that day for the first time, to appear to advantage in Mrs. Rowley's eyes. "Ruined, sir!" he said, in a tone that was quite affecting; "ruined past brushing-coppered all over!"

Paul really was very sorry, and looked as sympathising as he could.