The American steamboats can “whip all others out of creation;” but land travelling leaves much to be desired. All these thoughts might possibly have passed through the writer’s mind, had she been an American, as she flew, with the speed of the wind, through the green and highly-cultivated meadows of Merry England, seated in the luxurious _fauteuil_ of a first-class carriage. The journey was without incident or accident. On reaching the Derby-junction station, the train for that Shire, was, in railway phrase, “shunted” on to the midland-counties line. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, hastily swallowed, and away flew the train, at the speed of sixty miles an hour, through a rich country, diversified by hill, wood, and water—all glowing in the beams of the now setting sun. One hour more, and we stop. I catch a glimpse of the most coquettish little hat in the world, shading a radiant and lovely young face. Springing out, I am caught and kissed, and hurried into a carriage in waiting. One moment, and John, the footman, touching his hat, says: “Please, ma’am, the luggage is all right.” A pretty, silvery voice at my side, replies: “Very well—home.” John mounts the box, and Evelyn and myself are once more together and alone. [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI. +HOME SCENES+ EVELYN’S home was comfortable without being luxurious, and well suited to a family of moderate fortune. Charmingly situate, in the loveliest of England’s midland counties, the house, originally an old monastery, stood in the midst of a richly wooded though not very extensive park. The amusements at Woodlands, as is the case more or less all over England, were more suitable to gentlemen than to the fairer sex. They consisted, principally, of hunting, shooting, and fishing in some of the trout streams hard by. The Squire, as he was usually termed, with his son, Captain Travers, constantly availed themselves of these facilities for sport; consequently we ladies were left almost entirely on our own resources. An occasional dinner party, to which we were expected to drive out some ten or twelve miles, in full evening costume, perhaps on a snowy night, formed the only variety to our rather monotonous life. These dinner parties were altogether “flat, stale and unprofitable.” The usual codfish, with oyster sauce, saddle of mutton, and boiled chicken or turkey, were served up, and flavored by such conversation as the following: “A fine day for scent, eh, Squire?” “Glorious; were you in at the death?” “I should say so. By Jove! my mare’s a clipper, I can tell you.” “Smith, your grey rather swerved at that fence.” “Why, yes; my fool of a groom physicked him only a week since, and the fence was, a stiff-un, but he’s a very devil to go.” Or thus: “I say, gov’n’r,” (the slang term for father,) “how many birds d’ye say we bagged to-day?”