"We will remedy that, by and by," said Mr. Osborne, "see there is something to look at in the meantime; and I will bring Mrs. Boulder to you here." As he spoke, he wheeled in a chair for me, close to a table, covered with plates and drawings. I could not help being pleased at the kindness of his manner and tone, and at the pride he seemed to have in me, as if he wished other people to see that I belonged to him. A young man was standing at the table, minutely examining some of the prints--at least, I supposed so, they occupied him so long; and the old gentleman who had been speaking to Mr. Osborne, remained by me when he went to Mrs. Boulder, and said a word now and then, to encourage me, and set me at my ease I thought--for I was shy and embarrassed, and not very comfortable at being left alone. The young man on the other side of the table--how very long he held that print! it made me impatient to watch his examination of it, and ashamed of myself for finding so little in the others to detain me. When he laid it down at last--it was one of those street landscapes of the old quaint Flemish towns--the old gentleman made some remark upon it, and the young one replied. They had both been there. I have no doubt that was the reason why he looked at it so long. "These Low Countries--you have not seen them, Miss Southcote?" said Mr. Osborne's friend, "they are about as dull and unimpressive as our own Cambridgeshire." I had a great deal of local pride and was piqued at this--it restored me to my self-possession better than his kindness had done. "Do you think Cambridgeshire is unimpressive?" I asked quickly, looking up at him. "Why, yes, I confess I think so," said the old Fellow. "I have forgotten my native fells a little, after living here nearly fifty years; but I have never learned yet to find any beauty in the country here. Pray what are its impressive features, Miss Southcote?" I paused a moment that I might not be angry. "There is the sky," said I. The youth, on the other side of the table, bent towards me to listen; the old gentleman laughed a polite little critical laugh. "The sky is scarcely a part of the Cambridgeshire scenery, I am afraid," he said. As I paused, not quite knowing what to answer, the young man came to my aid. "I am not sure of that, sir," he said, with a look of eagerness, which struck me with some wonder. "The sky is as much a portion of the Cambridgeshire scenery as Michael Angelo's roof is a part of the Sistine chapel. Where else have you such an extent of cloud and firmament? You must yield us the sky." "The sky belongs equally to every county in England, and to every country in the world," said our white-haired critic. "I will yield you no such thing--there is but one Sistine chapel in the world, and one roof belonging to it. You must find a better argument." "You can see so far--you are bounded by nothing but heaven," said I.