“And sometimes in other places,” added a lady who sat on the fender-stool, blowing a great wood fire, with a preposterously small pair of bellows. “You know what I mean, Milly,” retorted her companion, a handsome, indolent-looking woman, who reclined in an easy-chair, with an open letter in her lap. “Houses out here are only built for two, as a rule--especially in cantonments. A victoria or pony-cart holds but two, and two is a much more manageable number for dinners and tiffins. Still, I shall be glad to have a girl to chaperon; it will give me an object in life, and more interest in going out.” “Could you take more?” asked the lady with the bellows, casting a sly smile over her shoulder. “To be sure I could, you disagreeable little creature! When a woman is no longer quite young, and her days of romance are at an end, the hopes and prospects of a pretty companion give her another chance in the matrimonial lucky-bag--a chance at second-hand, but still sufficiently exciting. Alas! life after a certain age is like a bottle of flat soda-water.” “I do not think so,” rejoined the lady with the bellows, stoutly. “No; I should be surprised if you did. You are so sympathetic and energetic. You throw yourself heart and soul into Dorcas meetings, bazaars, nurse-tending, and other people’s joys or afflictions. Now, my sympathies and energies rarely extend beyond Granby and myself. I am becoming torpid. I can scarcely get up the steam for a ball; even the prospect of cutting out old Mother Brande fails to rouse me. However, when I have a charming niece to marry--and to marry well--things will assume a different aspect. How amusing it will be to eclipse the other girls and their scheming mothers; how gratifying to see all the best _partis_ in the place grovelling at her feet! Her triumphs will be mine.” And Mrs. Langrishe slowly closed her heavy eyelids, and appeared--judging from her expression--to be wrapped in some beatific vision. From this delicious contemplation she was abruptly recalled by the prosaic question-- “How old is she?” “Let me see--dear, dear me! Yes,” sitting erect and opening her fine eyes to their widest extent, “why, strictly between ourselves, she must be twenty-six. How time flies! She is my eldest brother’s daughter, one of a large family. Fanny, my sister in Calcutta, had her out eighteen months ago, and now she is obliged to go home, and wants to hand Lalla over to me.” “I understand,” assented her listener, with a sagacious nod. “Can you also understand, that, simply because Fanny and I have no children of our own, our people seem to expect us to provide for their olive-branches? I don’t quite see it myself, though I do send them my old dresses. Now let me read you my letter,” unfolding it as she spoke. “450, Chowringhee, Feb. 22nd. “DEAREST IDA,