what a country gentleman of large property-one of an ancient honourable family-is expected to do when he comes to take possession. I believe that Lady Macaw would have him cut a hole in his pocket, and strut about dropping gold guineas at every step that he takes. Amongst other things, she tried to nail me down to patronizing her stall at the fancy-fair to be held at G for some nonsensical object. I suppose that when she and the pretty girls of her working party constrain old bachelors to buy their bibs and pink socks, pincushions, pinafores, and parrots, they fancy that they are doing a deed of charity-I would simply call it pocket-picking.

Meredith. But we have wandered somewhat from the point from which we started, the disinterested beneficence of woman.

Caleb.That it is disinterested is just what I deny. I tell you that every woman, plying her fingers to work, or her tongue to beg, looks for payment in pleasure or praise. There's my little niece Philomel Lamb, the parson's daughter, as good a creature as lives, and as deep as you yourself could desire in schools, and savings' banks, and cottage visiting—a philanthropist over head and ears! Why, where's the self-denial in this? She sets to her work because she likes it, and because the world says that

it becomes a parson's daughter to look after her father's flock. She likes all the curtseying and bobbing of the village children, and the name of being clever, active, and good. I don't say that there's harm in her liking it,—if she hadn't a bit of vanity she wouldn't be a woman-he! he he!

Meredith (to himself).—What a blind owl this is; and yet he fancies himself clearer sighted than the rest of the world!

Caleb.-Why, that merry black-eyed damsel, Lucy Langton, who sat next to me yesterday evening, can play at charity when she has nothing better to play at, hunt out "cases" when there's no other game to hunt, and I daresay cuts and snips and stitches for Lady Macaw's fancy-fair, as energetically as she would whirl round and round in a polka. And her pretty sister, Miss Delia, with her perpetual simper, will think herself doing a mighty good deed when showing off her taper fingers and jewelled rings selling frippery behind a counter. Folk must mount their hobbies; and charity with most of your good people, especially the ladies, is an easy-going hack, that carries bells on its harness and trots all the better for the jingle-he! he he! With fiery philanthropists, like yourself, it may be like a hunter, that bears you right over hedge and ditch, but I suppose that you find pleasure in the excitement,

and on neither hack nor hunter is the rider likely to take the leap of Quintus Curtius.

Meredith. But surely, Mr. Coffin, you cannot so close your eyes to facts as to deny that real sacrifices, great sacrifices, are made for the sake of charity by

women.

Caleb.-No one denies it, my good friend, so you need not look so indignant as a champion of the sex. Woman sometimes will, and does sacrifice, money, time, strength, and a good deal besides, for the sake of being, or of seeming, charitable; don't shake your head so impatiently-the two things are closely connected. All that I argue for is, that there is one thing which woman does not, and will not sacrifice, and that is her vanity, her love of being admired. She'll go anywhere with that wind in her sails, but she can't beat up channel against it. Find me a girl who will do good in the dark, prove that she cares not a straw for what the world says of her doings, that she wants neither praises nor thanks, and I'll believe in the phoenix, or mermaids, or anything else that you will; I'll believe that you've chosen a wife who will help, not hinder you, in making a paradise of Pitsmouth; you shall have a rare gift for your nonpareil bride, and I'll dance myself at the wedding!

Meredith (rising).-Take care what you promise,

Mr. Coffin; I may one day hold you to your word.

Caleb.-Mind you, I must have the choice of the test, and be satisfied that the metal has fairly stood it; I must look through my own good spectacles, and not through your lover's eyes.

And so the companions parted, as we saw at the commencement of the chapter; the eagle to make bitter reflections on the dull cynicism of the owl, and the owl to hoot ridicule at the romantic flights of the eagle. The remarks of Caleb Coffin had, however, disturbed the serenity of the young owner of Pitsmouth more than he chose to own. Meredith had seen in his own family the power of a domestic tether to keep down an ardent spirit; he had seen a woman's influence divert into channels of ostentation what had once flowed in that of charity; and the thought had often crossed his mind, that the philanthropist who would soar high must be content to soar alone.

HILE Mr. Coffin was criticising the ladies of Thwayte, the ladies, on their part, were passing judgment upon Mr. Coffin. When the late easy-tempered, openhanded, good-natured proprietor of Burnesbey Abbey had paid the debt of nature, the character of his successor became a subject of curious conjecture, a matter of personal interest to all who dwelt in the neighbourhood. Sir John Coffin had held no very lofty place in men's esteem during his lifetime; but, like many more noble than himself, the fox-hunting squire was destined to be more highly appreciated after his departure from earth than during his residence in it.

At the dinner-party given in his honour by Lady Macaw, Mr. Coffin may be said to have made his first appearance in that circle in which his position as a large landed proprietor would henceforth give