The day was wet, and dull, and miserable; the sort of day so harmoniously described in Mr. Longfellow's poem. The dead leaves fell from the dripping trees in the park, and the splash of the rain upon the terrace made a monotonous accompaniment to conversation. The gentlemen of the household had defied Jupiter Pluvius, and had set off at early morning, provided with water-proof garments and the clumpiest of shooting-boots, to wage war upon innocent young partridges in stubble and turnip-field. But they came home at three; and after a tremendous luncheon and a careful toilet, presented themselves in the drawing-room, where they proposed an immediate adjournment for a game of billiards. The young ladies were delighted to accept the invitation. Two or three good-natured matrons consented to join the party; while less vivacious dames discovered suddenly that they had important letters to write in their own rooms, which important correspondence was popularly supposed to be the ladylike excuse for an after-luncheon nap. Mrs. MacClaverhouse was among the matrons who retired to her apartment. "I suppose you'll come up stairs to have some tea at six, Lady Cecil," she said to her niece, whom she had addressed in this ceremonious manner throughout the visit of Mr. O'Boyneville. "But you'll come and play, Lady Cecil?" cried one of the young ladies. "No, thank you, dear; I, too, have got some letters to write." "I don't believe a bit in people's letters!" exclaimed the impetuous young damsel. "Letter-writing in country-houses is nothing but an excuse for being unsociable;--isn't it, dear Mrs. Mountjoy? If I were you I'd put up an inscription over my hall-door: 'No letters to be written on any pretence whatever.' I would do away with the post-bag, and oblige my visitors to correspond with friends at a distance by electric telegraph.'" After which the lively damsel skipped off with her arm encircling her dear Mrs. Mountjoy's waist, and Cecil found herself alone in the drawing-room. Of course she had letters to write--if she found herself equal to the labour of writing them. Where is the civilised being who can honestly declare that he or she has wronged no man in the matter of neglected correspondence? Cecil was deeply in debt to half-a-dozen lively friends who wrote her long descriptions of the places where they were staying, and were eager to receive her account of the place where she was staying, and the people whom she met there. She was in debt to Flo, who sent her voluminous epistles from Brighton, with pen-and-ink sketches of eccentric costumes to be seen on the King's Road, and caricatures of Mr. Lobyer in divers attitudes. He passed the greater part of his existence on the Brighton Railway, Flo told her friend. "And if the Brighton line were not the best in England, the unhappy being would be reduced to a state of imbecility by the effects of railway-travelling," added Miss Crawford.