me a clear field with the young lady; and champagne, under a midsummer's sun, having pretty well overcome my natural timidity of disposition, I assumed the vacant seat by her side, and proceeded to go ahead. As the bright eyes which I now saw for the first time had a good deal of influence on my movements during the ensuing season, I may be allowed to indulge in a faint sketch of their seductive owner.

Kate Cotherstone was a young lady peculiarly adapted by nature to the part which I learnt, in time, she had been sedulously instructed to perform. With a short and neat figure, that looked enchanting on horseback, she combined a most piquante and joyous expression of countenance, set off by beautiful teeth, in a rather large mouth, jet black hair always "done" to perfection, and a fresh healthy colour without being "blowsy." Her eyes, of a very light gray, and with a cunning and malicious expression, were her worst feature; but then such long black eyelashes and arching eyebrows would have made amends for a squint itself. She rejoiced in such a foot and ankle as our native soil does not often produce; and, need I add, that she could dance too well for a lady. Young Sabretasche, of the ―th Hussars, swears he once waltzed with her for five-and-thirty minutes; and, as that polished young warrior expresses it, she was not "halfbeat at the finish." Her other accomplishments I may sum up in a few words. I have seldom met any one who could ride so well, play and sing better, or draw half such good caricatures; she always held a capital hand at whist, which she played most judiciously; and I have known her, in the free and nautical regions of Cowes, to inhale the pleasing narcotic of a mild cigar!

My recollections of that heavenly day at Ascot are one whirl of blue sky, racing, shouting, champagne, and Kate Cotherstone. I was fairly hooked before I had sat with her for half an hour. We voted the open carriage the only place to see the races from; we pored together over my book, whose figures my fair adviser appeared perfectly to comprehend; we rushed headlong into a half-sovereign lottery, which Mrs. C.

won, as she said, "quite providentially;" we arranged a ride to Virginia Water on the worst day's racing, and a pic-nic in the forest for the following week. Once I descended from my perch, and proceeded boldly into the ring to back "HereI-go-with-my-tail-on," because she thought it such a darling name; on which occasion I lost " a pony" to Papa, which it afterwards occurred to me I might have done as easily from the carriage. Then I wagered a pair of gloves with my enslaver; and, losing of course, had to request the loan of one of the pretty little white kids, that clung so lovingly to that tapering hand, that "I might make no mistake about the size." Under the most sacred promises of a speedy restitution, this was at last granted; and I was in the act of placing the late-won treasure next my heart, inside my waistcoat, when the effect of my chivalrous and devoted action was much spoilt by the consciousness that I was watched by Bloomsbury and Co., Plantagenet Cripps (confound him), and Jack Raffleton, who was to dine with us the whole four excusing this disgraceful espionage by the pretence that they were waiting to accompany me home to our villa, the races being over. Heavens, so they were! I blushed up to the rim of my white hat, crammed the glove into my coat pocket, bid Miss Cotherstone a most confused "Good morning," stammered out an unintelligible acceptance of Mamma's hospitable invitation to "dine with them to-morrow not later than a quarter before eight;" and joining my quizzing associates, was much discomfited by Jack's very disagreeable remark, that "Nogo's hit very hard; got it just under the wing, and likely to prove a bad case!"

CHAPTER VIII.

ASCOT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES,

Benedick.-Suffer love. A good epithet!

I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
Much Ado about Nothing.

OUR dinner-party at the villa, as we called it par excellence, consisted of Bloomsbury, Sharpes, Cripps, and myself, with the addition of Jack Raffleton, whose good humour and good spirits enlivened us considerably. Many a sly hit and inuendo were pointed at my devoted head, and the most sacred feelings of my bosom (all arisen since morning) appeared to these worldly spirits only to furnish an endless subject for bad puns and impertinent remarks.

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Nogo! let's go to the Windsor ball to-morrow night; there's always a good ball during Ascot week. All the First will be there, and we shall have some fun," said Bloomsbury, heating an already much inflamed countenance with a third bumper of his own most execrable champagne. Why is it that a wine-merchant should always think it necessary to consume his wares in such profusion? The sorcerer imbibes not the philtre of his own compounding, and the apothecary most religiously eschews the mixture he has himself made up. "Besides," added Bloomsbury, smacking his great lips with a relish that could hardly be feigned, "we shall have all the people who live about here, and Mrs. Cotherstone made me promise to bring some dancing men.'

"Nogo! a glass of wine!" "Nogo! your good health!" "Nogo! you'll go !"—the latter from Jack Raffleton-burst upon my tingling ears. I blushed. How could I help it? I swore I hated balls, and never danced-did not think I should go. Heaven forgive me! I had promised her that very afternoon that nothing earthly should prevent my being at the ball and claiming her hand for the very first waltz.

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In short I was over head and ears in love; and the whole of that glorious June evening, despite of a most elaborate dinner, despite of the rallying of my companions, despite of the many bumpers of claret, so grateful to the throat parched and fevered with the excitement of a day's racing in that tropical weather-despite of all, I sat as one entranced. I saw, heard, felt nothing but Kate Cotherstone. I ate strawberries; but their fragrance only reminded me of winding paths through gardens of roses, and I thought of the bliss of an evening stroll with Kate Cotherstone. The ruby wine sparkled in my thin crystal goblet, and bore my spirit on its blushing wave to the clustering vineyards of sunny France, the joyous region of Bordeaux (an imaginary district, which, if truth must be told, the innocent liquor before me had never visited), and I thought what a paradise it would be with Kate Cotherstone !

Heedless of the chat and merriment of my companions, I looked through the French windows, thrown open down to the ground to catch the faintest sigh of the summer's evening breeze; I gazed on the sloping lawn, the darkening woods, the last faint blush of sunset fading into that indescribable clear transparent hue, which of all the gems of earth the opal alone can strive to imitate; and I thought of Kate Cotherstone. How I treasured up every syllable we had interchanged during the day! how I twisted and tortured every word she had uttered, to discover some hidden meaning of approbation or encouragement. How I thought of what she might have said, and what I ought to have said!—how I speculated on the possibility of her affections being disengaged; and made the boldest resolution' of declaring my attachment, and distancing all competitors! In short, the ideas and improbabilities that succeeded each other through my brain can only be conceived by those whose youthful fancies have been, like mine, the sport of a wayward and uncontrolled imagination. I was a fool; I think I knew it, and yet I was a happy one. The evening wore on; the last, positively the last of a series, every one of which had in turn been called "just

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another bottle," had been drained. Midnight approached, and coffee and candles made their joint appearance, when a suggestion from Sharpes, I believe the first he made that evening, with regard to broiled bones, produced a simultaneous demand for the backgammon board, not for the purpose of indulging in that innocent recreation of the elderly, but in order to bring into play quite a different sort of "bones" from those for which Sharpes had asked.

"A little chicken?" said Jack Raffleton, parodying the lines of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

"And when the dull hours of the public are past,

We meet with champagne and some chicken at last.”

"Chicken, by all means," shouted Cripps.

"What do you say to 'Vingt-John'?" hiccuped Bloomsbury, overcome, like some Bacchanalian wizard, by the spirit he had himself conjured up.

"Not enough for a round game," was the unanimous reply ; and chicken-hazard was voted the only pastime for the small hours of morning. We sat down to play accordingly; and a glorious summer sun had already risen for two hours when I sought my couch, jaded and headachy under the combined influence of noise, excitement, and cigar-smoke. The neverceasing rattle and bang of the dice-box, as it circulated with varying fortune from hand to hand in our small party, might have deafened less sensitive ears than mine: and the paltry gain of "a pony" was hardly an equivalent for a feverish night and seedy morning.

Let me pass over the following day's racing and the usual repetition of betting, luncheon, gain and loss-like all repetitions, somewhat flat, stale, and most decidedly unprofitable. The gloss of novelty soon wears off; and excitement must be kept continually increasing, or it ceases to deserve the name. The horses ran or were pulled, the odds were laid or were taken, the people shouted, and the sun shone, but it was all a blank to me. What was Ascot and its glories—what was