the charms which are confided to his charge. But we have said there are exceptions, and Blanche’s bay horse, “Water King,” was a bright particular star among his equine fellows. Humble pedestrians stopped to gaze open-mouthed on that shapely form--the marble crest, the silky mane, the small quivering ear, the wide proud nostril, and the game wild eye--the round powerful frame, hard and smooth and well-defined as sculptured marble, showing on the “off-side” its whole lengthy proportions uninterrupted save by girth and saddle-flap, and the little edge of cambric handkerchief peeping from the latter. High-couraged as he was gentle, few horses could canter up the Ride like “Water King,” and as he bent himself to his mistress’s hand, snorting in his pride, his thin black tail swishing in the air, and his glossy skin flecked with foam, many a smart philosopher of the “_nil admirari_” school turned upon his saddle to approve, and drawled to his brother idler, “’Gad, that’s a monstrous clever horse, and _rather_ a pretty girl riding him.” Major D’Orville thought they were a charming couple as he accompanied Miss Kettering and her steed with the careful air of proprietorship seldom assumed save by an accepted suitor. The Major was a delightful companion for the Park. He knew everybody, and everybody knew him. He had the knack of making that sort of quiet disjointed conversation which accords so well with an equestrian _tête-à-tête_. Defend us at all times from a long story, but especially on horse-back! The Major’s remarks, however, were seldom too diffuse. “You see that man on the cream-coloured horse,” he would say; “that’s Discount, the famous money-lender. He gave a dinner yesterday to ten people that cost a hundred pounds, and he is telling everybody to-day all the particulars of the ‘carte’ and the ‘bill.’ Do you know that lady with the dark eyes and a netting all over her horse?--that’s Lady Legerdemain--she keeps a legion of spirits, as she says, and will raise the dead for you any night you like to go to her house in Tyburnia proper.” “How shocking!” Blanche replies, with a look of incredulity. “Fact, I assure you,” returns the Major. “Sir Roger Rearsby asked to see an old brother-officer who was killed at Toulouse, and they showed him his own French cook! but Lady Legerdemain says the spirits are fallible, just like ourselves. Who is this in uniform?--why, it’s ‘Uppy’--he don’t look very disconsolate, does he, Miss Kettering?” and the Major smiled a meaning smile, and Blanche looked down and blushed. “Some men would not ‘wear the willow’ so contentedly,” proceeded D’Orville, lowering his voice to half-melancholy tone--“it’s setting too much upon a cast to ask a question when a negative is to swamp one’s happiness for life. I honour the man that has the courage to do it, but for my part I confess I have _not_.” “I never knew you were deficient in that particular,” replied Blanche, looking down again, and blushing deeper than before.