I cannot refrain from mentioning a circumstance which interested me at the time very much, having always entertained a great predilection for “ghost stories.” I had a pretty, quaint, low-roofed room at Cowdray, opening into the common passage on one side, and to a narrow little winding staircase, leading to the garden, on the other. I was constantly attracted by knocks at that door, and in the frequent practice of saying “Come in” to some imaginary person. I had not the slightest fear, but was, of course, laughed at for my ridiculous fancies. I therefore found some consolation (although I was very wrong to do so) when informed that on certain improvements being made, and the little staircase done away with, the skeleton of a child was discovered lying at the bottom of the steps leading from my room; but who does not love to exclaim “I told you so!” [Sidenote: COWDRAY—THE POYNTZ FAMILY] Beautiful Cowdray! How many happy days rise before me as I write the name! How many delightful walks in that enchanted wood, especially when escorted by “Courage,” the gigantic St Bernard. Him I was allowed to take with me in my walks abroad, on condition that I led him by a chain, as he was a decidedly sporting character. Well do I remember one such walk with him. I had fastened his chain round my waist, to leave my hands free, when lo! the game was afoot, and off started Courage, carrying me with him in a wild and impetuous course. Every moment I expected to be dashed to pieces against a root, or to be thrown down and dragged at his heels; but gathering up my strength, and calling up all the presence of mind that was left me, I encircled the trunk of one of the smaller trees in a frenzied embrace, and contrived to arrest the headlong career of Courage, in time to avoid a catastrophe to both of us. I revelled in the gallops in the park with my uncle (whom I simply adored), my sister, and our cousins, for we one and all loved horses and rode well, and to some extent justified an answer made to me by a farmer’s wife, when I asked her one day for the loan of her horse for a ride. “Certainly, Miss Mary,” she said, “with great pleasure. The farmer will always lend you or your sister his best horse, for he well knows what capital _horse-ladies_ you are.” I would fain make my readers acquainted with some of the characteristics of a beloved member of our family, who exercised a wonderful influence on all who surrounded him. Yet when I say that my uncle Poyntz was of a genial humour, a man of the world, a citizen of the world popular among all classes, all ages and both sexes, ever welcome abroad and adored at home, I am but too well aware that I fail in conveying any idea of his especial individuality. [Sidenote: POLITICS]