Flint, “did _those women_ become known to you?” My answer was prevented by a harsh and strong voice, which rapidly began the service. The captain’s entrance with his niece again discomposed Miss Flint’s features, and the confessional prayer was lost to her whilst she was chiding Mary for her delay. She meekly said, Mrs. Warner could not walk fast, and retiring to a remote corner of the pew, composed herself with seriousness to the duty before her. A sermon on the deceitfulness of riches, begun and finished in less than ten minutes, concluded Mr. Snughead’s task. I again acknowledged the _women_ in the next pew for my acquaintance, with a frankness and cordiality, which still more surprised Miss Flint. “I find my brother the captain,” observed she fixing her eyes on him; “needs not any introduction to you, Miss Cowley; otherwise”—“Oh dear, no!” answered I, “Sir Murdock has anticipated you in your obliging intention. I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Flint in my walk.” Thus saying, I joined Mr. Heartley, and left Miss Flint to the care and compliments of the rector at the church-yard gate. She with much dignity mounted into her coach; I followed. The captain was coldly asked whether he and Mary walked; an affirmation was given: then turning to the obsequious divine, she invited him to take an airing, and to dine also, at the hall. Some excuse was pleaded, which I did not hear. “Phoo!” replied she, “there is no end of such whims. You will make an arrant slave of yourself.”—“Well, I submit,” answered he, leering at me, “I cannot be in better hands than yours.” “We will take a circuit home,” observed Miss Lucretia; with much complacency, “Miss Cowley is yet a stranger to the country, and you will contribute to recommend it.” He bowed. Now, Lucy, knowing, as I do, your predilection for the cloth, I mean to be on my guard how I lessen your partiality for the black coat you so peculiarly favour: yet, truth is truth, and though I mean not to reproach you for your want of taste, I must tell you there is no comparison to be drawn between Mr. Sedley and the reverend Mr. Snughead; to be sure, our curate has some qualifications, with which in the opinion of the simple souls at Heathcot, he might rise to an archbishopric without disgrace to the pastoral crook; but in some particulars, he is a mere cypher compared to the rector of Tarefield parish. “Proofs, proofs,” methinks I hear you call for. Well, be not angry, you shall have them, I advance nothing without proofs, nor any thing in malice. I honestly allow that Sedley is handsome; but his beauty is of that kind which will never make his fortune; for people in general do not much care to admire graces of any kind which they can neither rival, nor like to copy. Now, I have a notion that Mr. Snughead was, in the days of his youth, which by the way is on its wane, universally allowed to be irresistible, and that he answered exactly to what some ladies denominate “a sweet pretty man, a neat dapper fellow, a