"She's getting a precious deal too affectionate! Talk about wanting me to marry _her_, why she'll run away with _me_ directly!" grumbled Charley, as Mr Dudgeon impatiently drove off, leaving the young man with the impression of a swiftly passing vision of Laura Bray showing her white teeth in a great smile as she waved her hand, and of a fair gentle face bent slightly down, so that he could see once more the rich massive braids resting upon a shapely, creamy neck. "Have they been saying anything to her?" said Charley, as the brougham disappeared. "She's getting quite unpleasant. Grows just like the old woman: regularly parrot-beaked. Why didn't she introduce me? Took the best seat, too! Looks strange! I say, though, `bai Jove'--as that sweet brother says--this sort of thing won't do! I should like to please the dad; but I don't think I could manage to do it `that how,' as they say about here. She quite frightens me! Heigho! what a bother life is when you can't spend it just as you like! Wish I was out in Australia or Africa, or somewhere to be free and easy--to hunt and shoot and ride as one liked. Let's see: I shall not go over to the town now--it's nearly lunch-time, and I'm wet." He had mounted his horse, and was about to turn homeward, when something shining in the grass caught his eye, and leaping down, he snatched up from among the glistening strands, heavy with raindrops, a little golden cross--one that had evidently slipped from velvet or ribbon as the ladies stood beneath that tree. "That's not Miss Laura's--can't be!" muttered Charley, as he gazed intently at the little ornament. "Not half fine enough for her." Then turning it over, he found engraved upon the reverse: "E.B. From her Mother, 1860." "E.B.--E.B.--E.B.! And pray who is E.B.?" muttered Charley, as, once more mounting, he turned his horse's head homeward. "Eleanor B. or Eliza--no, that's a housemaid's name--Ernestine, Eva. Who can she be? Not introduced--given the back seat--hardly spoken to, and yet so ladylike, and--There, get on, Beauty! What am I thinking about? We sha'n't be back to lunch." He cantered on for a mile: and then as they entered a sunny lane--a very arcade of gem-besprinkled verdure--he drew rein, and taking the little cross from his pocket, once more read the inscription. "`E.B. From her mother, 1860.' And pray who is her mother? and who is E.B.? Nobody from about here, I'll be bound. But what a contrast to that great, tall, dark woman! And they call her beautiful! Not half so beautiful as you, my lass!" he cried, rousing himself, and patting his mare's arched neck. "You are my beauty, eh, lass? Get on, then!" But as Charley Vining rode on he grew thoughtful, and more than once he absently muttered: "Yes; I think I'll go to the flower-show to-morrow!" Volume 1, Chapter VI. A SECOND MEETING.