discomfited to find it already occupied by two young ladies, dressed, as far as my confusion permitted me to observe, precisely alike, sitting in precisely the same attitude, and engaged over similar pieces of crochet-work. I bowed very awkwardly, and walked up to the fire, with the startling intelligence that it was “a cold evening,” a proposition neither of the ladies seemed in a position to confute. This masterly manœuvre, however, gave me an opportunity of studying both their faces, and I am bound to admit that the one predominating idea present to my mind, during a perusal of their features, was, “How shall I ever know one from the other, when their brother comes down, and formally introduces us?” Each of them was a rather tall, rather large young lady, with hands and feet to correspond. Each of them had a certain regularity of features, totally devoid of any expression whatsoever, that might have laid claim to good looks, had it not been nullified by the absence of colouring and want of tone in their rather large, rather flat faces. If either of them had unfortunately taken to drinking, she would have been a bad likeness of her brother the Jovial. That I longed ardently for the conclusion of that gentleman’s toilet is no matter of surprise, the conversation between the Misses Plumtree and myself being driven, so to speak, at a funereal rate, and in the longest possible stages. I gathered, however, from a certain decision of tone in their few and disjointed remarks, that there was no mother Plumtree, and that the vestals now before me were the presiding goddesses of the place. At length, to my great relief, I heard a door open on the staircase, and a manly step approaching, which I feared, even while I listened, was too ponderous for that of my friend. The young ladies made a rustling kind of movement, as if to bespeak my attention. A deep voice in the hall was heard to say, “Dinner directly!” and the portly form of mine host walked into the drawing-room, with outstretched hand, and that welcome on his lips with which an Englishman always receives a guest into his castle, whether that metaphorical building be really a ducal residence, a squire’s hall, or a day-labourer’s cottage. Old Mr. Plumtree was a great improvement on his son, as well as his picture. Although of the plainest and most unsophisticated of squires, he was obviously a high-bred gentleman; and his old-fashioned attire—for he had not discarded the blue coat, yellow waistcoat, and white stockings of his younger days—was perfectly in keeping with his fresh old face, round and rosy as a winter-apple: his fine bald head and stately figure, deep of chest, stout of limb, and somewhat protuberant of stomach.