Mr. Hartland nodded assent, and the screwing system commenced, not, however, without a keen eye to appearances, which were to be observed so as to maintain a show of gentility suited to prospective contingencies. The warm, broad, laughing fire was exchanged for the sullen brasier or the sulphurous stove; and though Mr. Playfair more than once reminded Mrs. Hartland of the anecdote of Alexander and Diogenes, she contrived to exclude the brightness of the sun, along with the caloric of his beams, from affording compensation for the deficiency of coals, by blocking up half the windows in the house, to avoid the tax upon daylight. The _form_ of two courses certainly graced the table; but in the first, the smoking joint had given way to scraps and messes dished up nobody knew how, or from what material, while never-ending Jerusalem artichokes, skerrets, and celery, played an unfailing part in furnishing the second. We were assured that Mrs. Hartland's parsimony had even descended to mixing the wines with water, before they were put down after dinner. But where were the young people, and how had time dealt with them? The old lord of the scythe and hour-glass had performed the promise which, during their infancy, he made to each. Algernon, who had reached his nineteenth year, was strikingly handsome. Nearly six feet in height, he had nothing of the awkwardness which usually marks that age; but presented the appearance of full-grown five-and-twenty. Algernon was, however, still the same indolent and selfish being of our former acquaintance. He had imbibed just enough of knowledge and acquirement to shew how much more he might have attained, and possessed abilities capable of far higher cultivation than he could be prevailed upon to employ; but self was the deity of his worship, and we need say no more of him. Of Zorilda--what words can be found to convey an adequate idea of her perfections? She had numbered nearly seventeen years, and in face and figure exhibited a model of female loveliness. The exquisite beauty of her form, the natural grace of every movement, and the penetrating sensibility of her countenance, would have rivetted all beholders, even though her features had wanted that symmetry which is requisite to charm the artist's eye; but Zorilda might have defied the painter's skill to find a fault in the proportions of her face, and that face bespoke the soul which dwelt within, and was worthy of such a casket to contain such a gem. Never did imagination create a more delightful fiction than was realized in the person of the youthful Spaniard. Was it wonderful, then, that all who looked upon her, saw and loved?