"O Mother!" suddenly cried Celia, in a voice which showed that her thoughts were on anything but evergreens, "I want to tell you something. Yesterday I was sitting by that great laurel, when a man begged of me through the hedge. I gave him a trifle, and he asked me if I were Squire Passmore's daughter. I told him yes, my name was Celia Passmore; and he told me in answer not to be too certain of it. Was it not droll? But the thing yet more strange was, that when I told Cicely of it, she said I had better tell you--no, she said I had better not tell you--but that you could tell me what it meant if I asked you. So very strange! What did it mean, Mother?" Madam Passmore was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, it was to say, in quite another tone, softer and tenderer than her previous one, "Thou art nineteen, Celia, my dear." "Yes, Mother," answered Celia, rather surprised at the information. "I was nineteen on the third of June." "Ay, born the same year as Bell," said Madam Passmore, gravely, and Celia thought a little sadly. "Well, I will tell thee, my dear, for thou oughtest to know, and thou art now a woman grown. Ay, I will tell thee, but wait until Tuesday. After the assembly will be better." Squire Passmore was riding leisurely home, after having himself carried the invitation to his old friends Mr. and Mrs. Harvey of Ellersley. He had nearly reached his own gates, when he suddenly pulled up to avoid running over a pedestrian. The latter met him as he turned a corner, and was apparently too deeply engaged in his occupation--that of searching into a portfolio in his hand--to see any one coming. He was a young man of some six-and-twenty years, and the brightness of his dark, penetrating eyes struck the Squire as he looked up and hastily drew to one side with an apology. "Your servant, Sir! I beg your pardon for my carelessness." "Another time," said the Squire, in his hearty voice, "I should advise you to delay looking into your portfolio till you are round the corner." "Thank you for your advice, which I shall certainly take," returned the young man. "Might I ask--can I be mistaken in thinking that I am addressing Squire Passmore, of Ashcliffe Hall?" "My name is John Passmore," said the Squire, "and I live at Ashcliffe. Do you want anything with me?" "I thought I could not be mistaken," answered the young man, with a very deferential bow. "My object in addressing you, Sir, is to request the very great favor of your permission to take a few sketches of your fine old Hall. I am sketching in this neighborhood in the employ of Sir Godfrey Kneller, the great London painter--you have surely heard of him--and if"-- "A good sensible Whig," interrupted the Squire. "If you want to sketch the Hall for him, you shall have leave to draw all the four sides; if you like. You are a painter, are you? I thought you must be some sort of a moonstruck fellow--painter, author, or what not--that you did not see me coming."