If she was struck by my changed appearance, I was no less so with hers. Time and Care, rival ploughmen, had deeply furrowed her brow—her _embonpoint_ was gone; and the iron-grey locks peeped here and there through the muslin of her cap. Still, as of old, the ease, the urbanity, the refinement, and, at the same time, the simplicity of the gentlewoman, shone in Miss Belfield as conspicuously as ever. As we stood near the fire, and during the pause which followed the ardour of question and answer incident to a first meeting, Miss Belfield drew my attention to a portrait over the mantelpiece; it was that of an officer, in somewhat old-fashioned regimentals. “Do you know that?” said she, in a subdued and choked tone, pointing to it with her finger. I did indeed; ’twas my old friend, the good, the kind, and thoughtful captain. There he sat, serenely, with his book half-opened and resting on his knee, just as he was wont to look in days of yore, when I rattled into his budgerow, after one of my shooting excursions. “Come,” said Miss Belfield, gently withdrawing me from its contemplation, “lunch awaits us in the next room, and you must require refreshment.” I must reserve a more detailed account of Miss Belfield for some future part of my autobiography,—that devoted to England; let it here suffice to state, that after a week’s visit to my amiable friend—one characterized by every thing that was pleasing—I returned to London, having first promised to repeat my visits from time to time, to draw and botanize, and talk of old times; and settle, over a cup of Howqua’s mixture, the great questions now agitating the world. But to proceed. I passed the old fort and station of Buxar, where a few invalids doze out the evening of their Indian existence, and saw some European veterans, almost as black as the natives, with large mushroom hats, bobbing for fish on the banks of the river, and in due time reached Ghazepore, the station of one of H.M. regiments. Here I found my shipmate, Ensign O’Gorman. The ensign, on whom I called, received me as an Irishman and a British officer in the royal service might be supposed to do. Could a volume say more for its warmth and cordiality? I dined with him at his mess, at which urbanity, kindness, and good cheer combined their attractions to render this one of the pleasantest evenings I had spent in India. Oar ship adventures were discussed; our fellow-passengers were passed in review, and we were supremely happy. “By the way,” said I, rather carelessly, “have you heard what has become of Olivia Jenkins?” “Oh, didn’t you hear she is married?” “Married!” I exclaimed, and a mouthful of pillaw stuck _in transitu_ in my œsophagus, nearly producing a case of asphyxia. “Good heavens! you don’t say so?” “Oh, it’s a fact,” said O’Gorman; “but what’s the matter? you appear unwell.” “Oh, I am quite well,” said I; “but let’s take a glass of wine.” I tossed off a bumper, and felt relieved.