"Alfred's sister was there. Such a dear girl, daddy! If she wasn't Alfred's sister, I should be jealous of her, because I am sure that everybody must prefer her to me. You will fall in love with her directly you see her. Lily and I are going to be great friends; she is coming to spend the day here on Thursday. Mr. Sheldrake was very attentive to her." This with a shrewd look at Mr. Musgrave's face. But it seems as if he has not heard the last words. "What name did you say?" he asks. "Lily. Pretty names are they not, daddy, for brother and sister? Lily and Alfred." "What is she like?" He does not ask the question immediately. He pauses for a little while before he speaks. "She is about my height, but a little slighter, with such beautiful brown eyes! I can't describe her face, there is such a dreamy look upon it sometimes. You must wait until Thursday and see for yourself. But I tell you what she is; she is good." "Does Mr. Sheldrake know she is coming?" "Yes; he proposed it, I think." Then he asks her to let him see Alfred's portrait which she has in her locket, and he gazes at it long and earnestly. The subject drops, and is not renewed again that day. Ivy Cottage is the name of the house, and it has been taken furnished, at a low rent, in consequence of its having been tenantless for some time. It is understood in the neighbourhood that an old gentleman and his daughter have come to live there, and Lizzie's bright face has already attracted attention and admiration. That Mr. Sheldrake, through his friend Con Staveley, intends to make Ivy Cottage a profitable speculation is evident. Operations have been already commenced in the sporting papers, and intending speculators are implored, before investing in the two great races which are soon to take place, the Cambridgeshire and the Cesarewitch, to send twelve stamps to a certain gentleman who, according to the advertisement, might be reasonably supposed to live in a letter-box at a post-office not a mile distant from Ivy Cottage. Mr. Musgrave, going to that post-office twice a day, never comes away empty-handed. The letter-box is his Tom Tiddler's ground, where he picks up gold and silver as represented by postage-stamps. And it is not the only Tom Tiddler's ground which has been discovered by the persevering explorers. A mile from Ivy Cottage, in another direction, is another post-office, whereto sportsmen are invited to send more postage stamps to the cousin of the most successful jockey of the day, and receive in return the "straight tip" for the above mentioned races, "the greatest moral ever known." The cousin of the most successful jockey of the day is, of course, in all the stable secrets, knows the intentions of the owners of all the most celebrated horses, and offers to forfeit one thousand pounds if the horse he sends fails to win; and as his honour is unimpeachable (he says to himself), there can be no doubt that the money would be forthcoming in case of a failure.