property in and about L— , from an uncle; was
considered a good landlord; and popular in Low
Town, though he never interfered in its affairs.
He was punctiliously neat in his dress; a
thin youthful figure, crowned with a thick
youthful wig. He never seemed to read
anything but the newspapers and the
Meteorological Journal: was supposed to be the
most weather-wise man in all L— . He had
another intellectual predilection—whist. But
in that he had less reputation for wisdom.
Perhaps it requires a rarer combination of mental
faculties to win an odd trick than to divine
a fall in the glass. For the rest, the he-colonel,
many years older than his wife, despite the thin
youthful figure, was an admirable aide-de-camp
to the general in command, Mrs. Colonel; and
she could not have found one more obedient,
more devoted, or more proud of a distinguished
chief.

In giving to Mrs. Colonel Poyntz the apellation
of Queen of the Hill, let there be no
mistake. She was not a constitutional sovereign;
her monarchy was absolute. All her proclamations
had the force of laws.

Such ascendancy could not have been attained
without considerable talents for acquiring and
keeping it. Amidst all her off-hand, brisk,
imperious frankness, she had the ineffable
discrimination of tact. Whether civil or rude, she
was never civil or rude but what she carried
public opinion along with her. Her knowledge
of general society must have been limited, as
must be that of ail female sovereigns. But she
seemed gifted with an intuitive knowledge of
human nature, which she applied to her special
ambition of ruling it. I have not a doubt that
if she had been suddenly transferred, a perfect
stranger, to the world of London, she would
have soon forced her way to its selectest circles,
and, when once there, held her own against a
duchess.

I have said that she was not affected; this
might be one cause of her sway over a set in
which nearly every other female was trying
rather to seem, than to be, a somebody.

But if Mrs. Colonel Poyntz was not artificial,
she was artful, or perhaps I might more justly
say—artistic. In all she said and did there were
conduct, system, plan. She could be a most
serviceable friend, a most damaging enemy; yet
I believe she seldom indulged in strong likings
or strong hatreds. All was policy—a policy
akin to that of a grand party chief, determined
to raise up those whom, for any reason of state,
it was prudent to favour, and to put down those
whom, for any reason of state, it was expedient
to humble or to crush.

Ever since the controversy with Dr. Lloyd,
this lady had honoured me with her benignest
countenance. And nothing could be more adroit
than the manner in which, while imposing me
on others as an oracular authority, she sought to
subject to her will the oracle itself.

She was in the habit of addressing me in a
sort of motherly way, as if she had the deepest
interest in my welfare, happiness, and reputation.
And thus, in every compliment, in every
seeming mark of respect, she maintained the
superior dignity of one who takes from responsible
station the duty to encourage rising merit:
so that, somehow or other, despite all that pride
which made me believe that I needed no helping
hand to advance or to clear my way through the
world, I could not shake off from my mind the
impression that I was mysteriously patronised
by Mrs. Colonel Poyntz.

We might have sat together five minutes, side
by side—in silence as complete as if in the cave
of Trophonius—when, without looking up from
her work, Mrs. Poyntz said abruptly,

"I am thinking about you, Dr. Fenwick.
And you—are thinking about some other woman.
Ungrateful man!"

"Unjust accusation! My very silence should
prove how intently my thoughts were fixed on
you, and on the weird web which springs under
your hand in meshes that bewilder the gaze and
snare the attention."

Mrs. Poyntz looked up at me for a moment—
one rapid glance of the bright red hazel eye—
and said,

"Was I really in your thoughts? Answer
truly."

"Truly, I answer, you were."

"That is strange! Who can it be?"

"Who can it be! What do you mean?"

"If you were thinking of me, it was in
connexion with some other person—some other
person of my own sex. It is certainly not poor
dear Miss Brabazon. Who else can it be?" .

Again the red eye shot over me, and I felt my
cheek redden beneath it.

"Hush!" she said, lowering her voice; "you
are in love!"

"In love!—I! Permit me to ask you why
you think so?"

"The signs are unmistakable; you are altered
in your manner, even in the expression of your
face, since I last saw you; your manner is
generally quiet and observant, it is now restless and
distracted; your expression of face is generally
proud and serene, it is now humbled and troubled.
You have something on your mind! It
is not anxiety for your reputation, that is
established; nor for your fortune, that is made; it
is not anxiety for a patient, or you would scarcely
be here. But anxiety it is, an anxiety that, is
remote from your profession, that touches your
heart and is new to it!"

I was startled, almost awed. But I tried to
cover my confusion with a forced laugh.

"Profound observer! Subtle analysist! You
have convinced me that I must be in love, though
I did not suspect it before. But when I strive
to conjecture the object, I am as much
perplexed as yourself; and with you, I ask, who
can it be?"

"Whoever it be," said Mrs. Poyntz, who had
paused, while I spoke, from her knitting, and
now resumed it very slowly and very carefully, as
if her mind and her knitting worked in unison
together. "Whoever it be, love in you would be
serious; and, with or without love, marriage is