LET us take a peep into Dove-cote Rectory, smiling in the wintry sun, as it lies snugly sheltered from the north winds by a thick plantation, and rejoicing in that most desirable advantage in our climate—a southern aspect. This house is one that would make any sportsman oblivious of the tenth commandment. Who could refrain from coveting possession of those cheerful rooms; that fine extensive view; above all, the excellent and commodious stables within reach of three packs of hounds, and situated in the best grass country in England? It is however with the _inside_ of the mansion that we have now to do, and with those gentle beings who constitute a home, without whom a palace is little better than a dungeon. Breakfast has been over at the Dove-cote for an hour or so. Cissy and her mamma have established themselves in what they call “the little drawing-room”—a snug apartment of small dimensions, with windows opening to the ground, and “giving,” as the French say, on a neatly laid-out garden, in spring and summer the peculiar care of the daughter of the house. To-day, however, flowers and blossoms are replaced by a million sparkling gems, formed by last night’s white frost, which is melting rapidly under the noon-day sun. Inside, the furniture is of a rich and somewhat gaudy pattern, assorting well with the rose-tinted muslin curtains and multiplicity of looking-glasses, which are so characteristic of a lady’s bower; whilst a thousand pretty knick-knacks, and a graceful litter of books, music, work, paper-lights, stray gloves, and gossamer handkerchiefs betray at once the sex of the occupants. A little statuette of a Cupid in tears, with nothing on but a quiver, occupies a niche between the windows, under a portrait of Miss Dove, depicted by the artist in a graceful attitude on the chestnut horse, attired in a blue riding-habit, with her hat off, and her hair falling about her shoulders, as, it is only right to observe, she is _not_ in the habit of wearing it when taking equestrian exercise. Altogether the painter’s idea seems to have been borrowed from a French print entitled “The Rendezvous,” representing a disconsolate damsel waiting for a gentleman in a wood—not in the best of humours, as is natural under the circumstances,—and sitting her white horse in a listless, woe-begone attitude, unworthy of an Amazon. The laggard, however, is perceptible in the far distance, making up for lost time on an exceedingly bad goer, whose “form” must at once absolve him of intentional unpunctuality in the eyes of his ladye-love. As a _pendant_ to this work of art, hangs a portrait in _crayons_ of Mrs. Dove, done some years ago, when people wore bunches of ringlets and a high comb at the back of the head—a fashion by no means unbecoming to the original, who must have been a sufficiently handsome young woman when she sat for this likeness. Indeed, the Reverend, no mean judge of “make-and-shape,” always declared