IT was just two years from the night in which Alice had been torn from the cottage: and at that time Maltravers was wandering amongst the ruins of ancient Egypt, when, upon the very lawn where Alice and her lover had so often loitered hand in hand, a gay party of children and young people were assembled. The cottage had been purchased by an opulent and retired manufacturer. He had raised the low thatched roof another story high--and blue slate had replaced the thatch--and the pretty verandahs overgrown with creepers had been taken down because Mrs. Hobbs thought they gave the rooms a dull look; and the little rustic doorway had been replaced by four Ionic pillars in stucco; and a new dining-room, twenty-two feet by eighteen, had been built out at one wing, and a new drawing-room had been built over the new dining-room. And the poor little cottage looked quite grand and villa-like. The fountain had been taken away, because it made the house damp; and there was such a broad carriage-drive from the gate to the house! The gate was no longer the modest green wooden gate, ever ajar with its easy latch; but a tall, cast-iron, well-locked gate, between two pillars to match the porch. And on one of the gates was a brass plate, on which was graven, "Hobbs' Lodge--Ring the bell." The lesser Hobbses and the bigger Hobbses were all on the lawn--many of them fresh from school--for it was the half-holiday of a Saturday afternoon. There was mirth, and noise, and shouting and whooping, and the respectable old couple looked calmly on; Hobbs the father smoking his pipe (alas, it was not the dear meerschaum); Hobbs the mother talking to her eldest daughter (a fine young woman, three months married, for love, to a poor man), upon the proper number of days that a leg of mutton (weight ten pounds) should be made to last. "Always, my dear, have large joints, they are much the most saving. Let me see--what a noise the boys do make! No, my love, the ball's not here." "Mamma, it is under your petticoats." "La, child, how naughty you are!" "Holla, you sir! it's my turn to go in now. Biddy, wait,--girls have no innings--girls only fag out." "Bob, you cheat." "Pa, Ned says I cheat." "Very likely, my dear, you are to be a lawyer." "Where was I, my dear?" resumed Mrs. Hobbs, resettling herself, and readjusting the invaded petticoats. "Oh, about the leg of mutton!--yes, large joints are the best--the second day a nice hash, with dumplings; the third, broil the bone--your husband is sure to like broiled bones!--and then keep the scraps for Saturday's pie;--you know, my dear, your father and I were worse off than you when we began. But now we have everything that is handsome about us--nothing like management. Saturday pies are very nice things, and then you start clear with your joint on Sunday. A good wife like you should never neglect the Saturday's pie!" "Yes," said the bride, mournfully; "but Mr. Tiddy does not like pies."