upon our heart and lips, we tapped at the door, and went into the room on the right hand. Every thing was in the neatest possible order--bunches of May in the grate, and bouquets of fresh flowers in two elegant vases upon the table. What nonsense to call this a public-house! It puts us much more in mind of Sloperton, Moore's cottage in Wiltshire; and in a finer neighbourhood than any part of Wiltshire can show. The landlady came; a fit spirit to rule over such a domain--the beau-ideal of tidiness and good humour. There were only two bedrooms; and one parlour was all they could give up. The raven of Barnaby Rudge had a hard fight of it to maintain his ground. We very nearly said die! for we had felt a sort of assurance that this was our haven at last. The landlady saw our woe. "There's such a beautiful cottage," she said, "a mile and a half further on." "Is it furnished?" "Well, I don't know. I think somehow it is. Would you like to go and see it? I don't know but my husband would put enough of furniture into it to do for you, if you liked it." It was, at all events, worth the trial. A little girl was sent with us to act as guide; and along a road we sauntered in supreme delight--so quiet, so retired, and so rich in leaf and blossom, that it seemed like a private drive through some highly-cultivated estate; and, finally, we reached the cottage. It stood on the side of an ascent; it commanded a noble view of the Herefordshire hills and the valley of the Wye; and there could be no doubt that it was the identical spot that the doctors had seen in their dreams, when they described the sort of dwelling we were to choose. I wish I were a half-pay captain, with a wife and three children, a taste for gardening, and a poney-carriage. I wish I were a Benedict in the honeymoon. I wish I were a retired merchant, with a good sum at the bank, and a predilection for farming pursuits. I wish I were a landscape painter, with a moderate fortune, realized by English art. I wish--but there is no use of wishing for any thing about the cottage, except that Mr Chaloner may furnish it at once, and let us be its tenant for two or three months. Mrs Chaloner, on our return to the Baskerville Arms, was gratified at our estimate of the surpassing beauties of the house. She would send her husband to us at the Hay the moment he returned; and, in the midst of "gay dreams, by pleasing fancy bred," we returned to our barrack, and created universal jubilee by the prospect we unfolded. In a sort of delirium of good nature, we waited patiently till the soldiers had had all the attentions of the household again. We had almost a sense of enjoyment in all the discomforts we experienced. The doors that would not shut--the waiters that would not come--all things shone of the brightest rose-colour, seen through the anticipation of ten or twelve weeks' residence in the paradise we had seen.