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man, with an air of great enjoyment. "May I die, madam, if I do not even admire your name! I used to think your former one the most euphonius in the world, because it softened so sweetly into Barnabbia; you know of old my passion for the dolce lingua. But methinks O'Donagough will undergo the same delicious process as well. May I not now call you la mia magnifica O'Donnacia?"

His lordship paused for a moment, half-frightened at his own audacity, as he remembered that it was just possible his charming old friend might know enough of the language of which she used to proclaim "her idolatry," to comprehend the "delicious process" rather too well; but the charming smile with which she listened to him, soon removed his doubts, and he remained convinced that, by whatever name he might choose to call her, she was, and ever must be, the most invaluable addition to his acquaintance that he could ever hope to make.

Their tête-à-tête, however, was soon brought to a conclusion by the rather boisterous entrance of Patty on her return from her visit to the Miss Perkinses.

"Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Donagough, "here is my child! my only surviving child, my lord! Permit me to present her to your lordship."

And so saying, she rose up in all her greatness, moral and physical, or, in plainer English, in all the flutter of expansive drapery and excited spirits, and throwing one of her arms round the person of her daughter, brought her close before the eyes of the admiring peer. Lord Mucklebury did not rise, for which his corpulency must be pleaded as an excuse, but he received the radiant young lady with a smile, and, after looking at her for a moment, drew her towards him by the hand that had been placed in his, and kissed her.

The words Lord and Lordship had sufficed to enlighten Patty as to the identity of the great personage who thus honoured her. She knew it must be her mamma's often-quoted dear friend, Lord Mucklebury; and therefore, though under other circumstances it is possible that she might not have felt particularly grateful for the salute, she now took it in very good part, and even grinned a little as she withdrew herself with a courtesy from before the condescending nobleman.

"An extremely fine young lady, indeed!" said his lordship, "and a most charming likeness of her mamma!"

"You find her like me, my lord?" said Mrs. O'Donagough in an accent of great tenderness. "Ah! my dear lord! no mother can ever hear that without pleasure!"

"Upon my honour, madam," replied his lordship, again spreading his hand upon his breast, "it is impossible, in this instance, to say whether mother or daughter ought to feel the most flattered by hearing of the resemblance. This young lady, all blooming as she is, may feel perfectly assured that her mother bloomed as brilliantly before her, and that charming mother herself, while looking on the prodigiously fine young creature to whom she has given birth, may smile with twofold rapture, conscious that she is gazing at once upon herself and child."

This fine speech rather astonished Patty, and she opened her great eyes, and gave her mother a look that seemed to say so. But Mrs.

O'Donagough, with her usual happy presence of mind, converted this somewhat impertinent stare into a compliment, by saying,

"Ah, my Patty! How well I understand that look! you are quite right, dearest! My darling girl is peculiarly alive to the charm of graceful manners, my dear lord, and sweet creature! she is too young to disguise what she feels."

"Sweet creature! sweet creatures both!" cried Lord Mucklebury, with great enthusiasm.

"Well, dearest?" said Mrs. O'Donagough, playfully untying her daughter's bonnet, and arranging the multitudinous ringlets of her black hair," and how did you leave your friends?"

"Oh lor! There's a fine kettle of fish there, mamma," replied the young lady. "Matilda is in such a way!"

"Well, well, love; we'll hear all that by and by. It is such an affectionate young heart, my lord! Where she attaches herself, the slightest circumstances appear to her of consequence."

"I hope, my dear madam," replied his lordship, "that she will speedily both feel and inspire precisely the attachment which may be most agreeable to you, and herself too."

Patty replied to this with a toss which seemed to say that all that had happened already; but her mother shook her head, and waved her hand, as if she deprecated the awful thought.

"Alas!" she exclaimed," she is a child, my lord!" Then abruptly turning to the young lady, she said, "Go, my love, go and find your father; he is in the library, I believe. Tell him that the valued friend he has so often heard me mention—tell him—that Lord Mucklebury is here!"

Patty left the room, and Mrs. O'Donagough, lowering her voice, which lisped a little, as was usual with her, when in full glory, said,

"My dear lord, your suggestion which goes to my very heart from the interest it evinces in the welfare of my child,-your suggestion, my dear lord, induces me to communicate to your friendly ear a circumstance which must, for the present, be secret from the world. My sweet girl has already, child as she is, inspired and conceived the attachment of which your lordship speaks, and the connexion is so desirable that we do not think we should be justifiable in interfering to prevent it, merely on account of her youth. My darling Patty is engaged to Sir Henry Seymour."

"Engaged to Sir Henry Seymour?" repeated Lord Mucklebury, interrogatively, and with a look of considerable surprise. "Do you mean Sir Henry Seymour of Hartley Hall?"

"Yes!" replied the undaunted Mrs. O'Donagough, "that is the name of one of the places; he is a ward of a near connexion of mine, Sir Edward Stephenson."

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Certainly, Sir Edward Seymour is, or rather was, his ward: but I did not know, my dear Mrs. Barnaby-I beg your pardon-your present name often escapes me, I did not know that you were related to Sir Edward Stephenson."

"Not exactly related, my lord, but nearly connected; Lady Stephenson's brother, General Hubert, is my nephew by marriage."

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"General Hubert, your nephew, my dear madam?" exclaimed the

peer with inexpressible astonishment, "upon my honour, I had no idea of it."

"It is even so, my lord," replied the lady, a little piqued, perhaps at the surprise so freely shown, but greatly pleased at the sort of coup de théâtre effect of the discovery.

While this interesting communication was making in the drawingroom, Patty had made her way into the library, where she found her father and Foxcroft in very close consultation.

"So you are here, are you?" said Patty, addressing the ex-lieutenant, and accompanying the question with a very scornful grimace, that did honour to the courageous firmness of her friendship for the unhappy Matilda. "You'll find these quarters too hot for you, Mr. Captain, if I don't much mistake," she added; "for you may depend upon it I am not going to give up having my own particular friend, Matilda Perkins, here and I should be happy to know what you would think of meeting her?"

"I do assure you, my dear young lady, I should not feel the least objection in the world to meeting your amiable friend, and she must have altogether mistaken my motives, if she attributes any thing to me which ought to occasion any coolness between us. Unhappily my income is insufficient to permit my marrying a lady without fortune, however charming she may be; but however much this may be a matter of regret on my side, it surely ought not be a matter of resentment on hers."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" replied Patty, turning her back upon him, and addressing her father. "I say, pap," said she, "there is my Lord Muckle something or other up stairs. It is mamma's great friend, you know, that she is so often crowing about, and you must come up this very minute, whether you like it or not."

"Is that the message that your mother sent to me, Patty?" demanded Mr. O'Donagough.

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My eye, no, papa! Mamma's as soft and as sweet as the flowers in May, now that she has got this Lord Muckle with her, so come along."

"And so I will, Patty; but you must shake hands with Foxcroft first."

"I had rather shake hands with a toad, than with a false-hearted lover," said Patty.

"Don't stand there, talking stuff to me," replied her father, with the aspect that always won belief as to his being in earnest.

So Patty shook hands with Mr. Foxcroft, who then took his departure; but she relieved her feelings by performing sundry grimaces to her father's back as she followed him up the stairs.

Nothing could be better than the style in which Mr. O'Donagough permitted himself to be presented to the gay old nobleman, and the few minutes of conversation which followed between them left exactly the impression on his lordship's mind which he intended; namely, that Mr. O'Donagough was certainly a very decent sort of person, though he had such a queer wife.

(To be continued.)

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS:

A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.

BY THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

In a secluded spot, in the wild and desolate regions of the Alps, dwelt two families, the only inhabitants of the place. The two chalets occupied by them, and a few patches of land laboured into fertility by hardy and incessant toil, with a herd of goats, who sought their scanty food wherever the rare and stunted herbage appeared, were the only symptoms of human habitation visible for some miles. A more dreary spot can hardly be imagined, than that where the chalets stood. Winter reigned there with despotic force during nine months of the year; and the approach of summer was hailed with a delight known only to those who have languished for its presence through many a long and cheerless day, surrounded by the dreary attributes of the gloomy

season.

Mountain rising over mountain, covered with eternal snow, and divided by yawning chasms, whose depths none had ever ventured to penetrate, met the eye at every side; the intermediate prospect only broken by the presence of a few hardy tannen and pine trees, whose dark-green foliage formed a striking contrast to the snowy mantle, which, like the funeral pall of dead nature, covered the earth for nearly three parts of the year.

The first symptom of vegetation was welcomed in this wild spot, as the first born is by a mother who has long pined for offspring; and, as the rays of the sun melted the frozen surface of the mountains, and sent a thousand sparkling streams rushing down their sides, falling with a pleasant sound into the deep glens beneath, the hearts of the inhabitants of the chalets became filled with cheerfulness, and the rigours and sufferings of winter were forgotten.

Martin Vignolles, with his wife and two daughters, occupied one of the rude and comfortless residences in this solitary spot; and the widow Bauvais, and her son, the other. The husband of the widow had been one of the most bold and adventurous chamois hunters in the Alps; and lost his life in the chase of one of those wild animals, leaving his wife and son, then an infant, wholly dependent on the kindness of their sole friend, Martin Vignolles. Nor did this friend fail them in the hour of need. He became as a brother to the bereaved wife, and a father to the fatherless; sharing with them his scanty subsistence, and cultivating the patch of land which the deceased had laboured into fertility.

Years passed away, and the widow's son had now grown into manhood, while Annette Vignolles had just completed her sixteenth year, and Fanchon her sister, her twelfth. The young man was light, agile, and hardy, like most of the children nurtured in the wild regions where he had been born; and where activity of person, and firmness of mind, are continually called into exercise, by the danger and difficulty with which the means of existence are procured. The melancholy of his widowed mother, who had never ceased to lament the husband

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