Miss Cowley, to accept of the assistance of ‘_a school-boy_’ in this language; there was a time, when it was as familiar to me as my mother tongue, or the French; but my memory has been many years _lost_ to me as a source of pleasure.” A reverie succeeded to this observation, and Mrs. Allen and I insensibly retraced our steps and got to Heathcot-Farm. We talked of Lucy Hardcastle; when, to our surprise, the good baronet interrupted us by observing, that our friends at Heathcot had an advantage of which it was probable they were not aware. “Heathcot,” added he mournfully, “will never recede from your mind whilst you are at Tarefield.—This is my fear: yet still I think you will be pleased with my Harriet. She is as gentle and pure-hearted as your dear Lucy. She will be miserable, if she fail in making you comfortable.” You will supply our answer. He continued to talk of his wife, and told us, that to her persuasions he had yielded reluctantly to undertake a journey which had separated him from her more hours, than for many years before he had been minutes: “but she thought,” added he, “that it would be beneficial to my health and spirits; and these are of value to me, because essential to her happiness.” He spoke with animation of her faithful love, and added, “She is now counting the hours till she sees me.” When arrived within five miles of Durham we left the road, and pursued our way through a flat country, unmarked by any thing cheerful; and reached Tarefield-hall at about eight o’clock in the evening of our third day’s journey. The house, as we approached it, struck me as having been originally built in that style of architecture for which we are indebted to William the III. and Dutch taste; but as each successive proprietor conceived his own to be as good, and had money for its indulgence, it exhibits at present samples of all: turrets and chimneys: high roofs and flat ones; latticed bows and Venetian windows, and wings added to wings. I find, however, many good-sized rooms within; and when we get acquainted with the five staircases, and as many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have seen all that is curious in the manor-house, commonly called Tarefield-hall. I must not, however, omit as its beauty, a noble avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts, the latter in full bloom, and which embellishes the dull scenery around. This avenue is flanked on each side by a rising plantation of some extent, and is devoted to modern improvement; the walks are neat and trim, and it is filled with shrubs. Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at Tarefield; and here does my history finish, unless you are good and tractable. Horace was not even named in your last letter.—This will not do. You had better not provoke me: I have rich materials before me, but I will have my price for them. Take in the mean time the kiss of peace from your RACHEL COWLEY. CHAP. V.