Juliana, with her fretfulness, her hand bounties, her petty egoisms, and sudden far-leaping generosities, and all the contradictory impulses of her malady, had now departed utterly. The joys of a landed proprietor mounted into the head of Sir Franks. He was up early the next morning, and he and Harry walked over a good bit of the ground before breakfast. Sir Franks meditated making it entail, and favoured Harry with a lecture on the duty of his shaping the course of his conduct at once after the model of the landed gentry generally. “And you may think yourself lucky to come into that catalogue—the son of a younger son!” said Sir Franks, tapping Mr. Harry’s shoulder. Harry also began to enjoy the look and smell of land. At the breakfast, which, though early, was well attended, Harry spoke of the adviseability of felling timber here, planting there, and so forth, after the model his father held up. Sir Franks nodded approval of his interest in the estate, but reserved his opinion on matters of detail. “All I beg of you is,” said Lady Jocelyn, “that you won’t let us have turnips within the circuit of a mile”; which was obligingly promised. The morning letters were delivered and opened with the customary calmness. “Letter from old George,” Harry sings out, and buzzes over a few lines. “Halloa!—Hum!” He was going to make a communication, but catching sight of Caroline, tossed the letter over to Ferdinand, who read it and tossed it back with the comment of a careless face. “Read it, Rosey?” says Harry, smiling bluntly.