that it should not be too much or too little fermented, but should be run off into the vat exactly at the proper moment. The farmer himself does not usually interfere with the regulation of this process, but leaves it to the discretion of the buyer of his wine, for the wine is very generally bought before it is made-that is to say, the merits of the different fuintas,' or vineyards, and the quantity they generally produce, being pretty well known, the English merchants, or their representatives, offer the farmers so much per pipe for the produce of the 'fuintas' while the grapes are yet on the vines; if this offer be accepted, the buyers naturally exercise their right to make the wine according to their own fancy.

At length there were no more adegas' to be visited that day, so, in the evening, we turned our horses' heads towards Mr- -'s headquarters, the house of a large farmer whose wine Mr had bought for many successive years. Our 'arrieros, or grooms, started off again as fresh as possible, keeping their usual place, a few yards in front of us, during the couple of leagues between the lastadega' and our night-quarters, although they had been on the stretch since sunrise, their only intervals of rest being when they held our horses for a short time when we dismounted at each 'adega.' Considering the excessive heat (the thermometer stood at a hundred degrees in the shade), and the extreme steepness and roughness of the ground, it was a good exhibition of walking powers, the more so when one remembers that these men, like all of the working class in Portugal, seldom or never taste meat, but live on a wretched diet of thin cabbage-broth and an occasional sardine, or small bit of salted cod-fish and maize-bread. Their broth is really nothing but cabbage and warm water, with a small piece of lard dipped into it, to give it a flavour!

At the 'fuinta' where we were to pass the night, we met a large party assembled in honour of Mr , the company consisting chiefly of the owners and managers of neighbouring 'fuintas,' pleasant and courteous, if not highly educated men; though the excessive ceremony of Portuguese manners gave rather a constrained character to the entertainment, at anyrate till after dinner. The dinner itself was an exaggeration of the profusion we had seen on the day before, the only thing worth remarking being, that the drinking of toasts began with the dinner, and concluded when the dishes were removed. Cigarettes were smoked at intervals during dinner; and soon after it was over we voted it bedtime.

We spent a fortnight in this manner, in our saddles all day, and becoming quite learned in the varieties of 'musts,' and delighted with the picturesque mountain and river scenery, and constantly amused and interested by the strange characters we encountered among these dwellers in an out-of-the-way corner of the world. Sometimes in our rides we came to 'fuintas' where other Englishmen from Oporto had established themselves for the vintage; when an invitation to dine and sleep seemed to follow as a matter of course, and caused us to pass many pleasant evenings.

At the end of the fortnight, Mr prepared to return to Oporto, his purchases being completed. Our journey on this occasion was to be made by water, and a large boat of about five tons' burden was elaborately prepared and provisioned for the

voyage. The distance to Oporto was sixty or seventy miles, but had it been six or seven hundred, we need not have been better provided. I stood on the bank of the river the evening before we started, and watched with amazement the hampers of roast turkeys and partridges, the trays of cakes, fruit, and sweetmeats, and the jugs and bottles of wine, which we were expected to consume on the voyage. The boat was peculiar in shape, but no doubt well adapted for the passage of the dangerous rapids of the Douro: her most remarkable feature was her rudder, which was an enormous wooden beam as long as the boat herself, and projecting several yards over the stern; it had a blade at the outer end, and was managed at the other by a man standing on a small platform raised six or eight feet from the floor of the boat. This extraordinary piece of timber seems to be necessary to guide the boat in the rapids, where oars cannot be used, and an ordinary rudder would have no effect, from the boat's having no steerageway through the water. The oars, four in number, are used at the bows, the men standing to row with their faces turned forwards. All the middle part of the boat was taken up by a cabin extemporised for our comfort; canes were arched across from gunwale to gunwale, and, being covered with canvas and tarpaulin, and the floor carpeted with matting, it looked extremely snug; canvas curtains were provided at both ends, to be drawn if needful, and mattresses, and cushions, and rugs were laid down to be lounged on; round the sides were ranged the hampers and boxes of provisions. All these arrangements were completed the night before; and at half-past four the next morning we went on board, and the 'arraes,' or captain of the boat, standing on his high platform, gave the word to 'haul in the bow-rope, in the name of God;' the current caught her bows as the rope was let go, and we started at a wonderful pace. For the first five hours of the voyage, our way lay down an almost continual succession of rapids; the river roared, and foamed, and eddied round the boat as she rushed past the walls of rock, which rose in many places perpendicularly from the water's edge. The steering here is a matter of extreme nicety, the least error, causing the boat to touch the rock on either side, would be fatal, at the tremendous pace one is carried along; and in spite of all the care and skill of the arraes,' many accidents occur every year, though hardly as many as one would suppose probable from the frightful violence of the current. The men row steadily, except when in the greatest force of the rapids, when it becomes impossible to do so, and they ship their oars. It is most exciting travelling, especially when, as in this case, we shot the first half-dozen rapids by moonlight, and that so faint, that we could see little beyond the foaming water and the dark outlines of the banks on either hand. When the rapid runs in a straight channel, there is not much danger in it; but where there is a curve in the river, and the stream rebounds from side to side, it becomes more difficult to avoid coming to grief. However, we were fortunate enough to experience no more than a pleasant amount of excitement during the passage of the rapids; and we performed the whole distance to Oporto in twelve hours, getting through the day pleasantly enough between eating, sleeping, smoking, and lounging on the steering platform, admiring the beauty of the

you fancy you would like, and your own way in everything.'

I daresay you may be right, papa, but that is beside the question. The friends who introduced Mr St Quentin to Mr and Mrs Cooke are well acquainted with his position and fortune. They are what he represents them. I do not think you can have looked forward to any better provision for me than the one he offers me, and I wish to know whether you will receive him, in accordance with his request, to-morrow?'

Her father took two or three turns in silence, before he replied: "There's not much room for discussion, Miriam. If I have not been very kind to you, according to your notions, at least I have not troubled you with much advice or dictation. I don't mean to do so now. Let Mr St Quentin satisfy me that he has the fortune he pretends to have, and let him make a handsome settlement on you, and I shall not prevent your marrying him, though I'm cursed if I can understand you.'

Miriam instantly rose.

"Thank you, papa,' she said calmly; 'that is all I require. I shall tell Mr St Quentin you will see him.'

'You had better tell him my terms too,' shouted Mr Clint; but Miriam had already passed through the door, and might pretend to be out of hearing. Miriam was in a strange mood all that evening. Sometimes she was pleased and excited, chattering to Florence about London, her intention of having a house there, her carriages and horses, her dress and her amusements; but above all, the delicious prospect of leaving the Firs. Then she would talk of Walter, of all she meant to do for him, how he should come home, and he and Florence live with her, until all should be set right with his father, and everything be arranged as it ought to be. Florence was not very much more experienced in the ways of the world than Miriam, but she had a clear perception that this was all romance and imagination, and she ventured to suggest to Miriam that perhaps Mr St Quentin might not see these matters in the same light. But Miriam would not listen to a doubt on that point. She did not put her sentiments into so direct a formula; but what she really meant was this: I am going to marry an old man for his money, and to get my own way, and it would be rather too bad if I could not make him do precisely as I please.'

Then Florence, seeing that she could not make any impression upon her, was forced to content herself with reminding Miriam that no revelation of her secret must be made to Mr St Quentin without Walter's consent, which it would take some time to obtain. To this Miriam assented, and then Florence approached the subject which had occupied her thoughts anxiously.

'What is to become of me?' she said, 'during the interval before we can hear from Walter? I suppose your marriage will soon take place.'

'I suppose so,' replied Miriam. But, of course, I can't tell. But, Rose, there need be no trouble or difficulty about you. You will come with me, of course, wherever I go. You will be under less difficulties when I am in a house of my own, than you are here. Then I can arrange so that there shall be nothing at all unpleasant in your position, and we shall soon be able to announce the truth.'

'Pray, don't deceive yourself; pray, don't buoy yourself and me up with false hopes. If Mr St

Quentin were to realise all your expectations of his generosity-and I think you must acknowledge they are extravagant-it would be madness for Walter to confess his marriage now, and throw himself upon Mr St Quentin's kindness. In fact, he could not do it; it would be the worst kind of dependence. Our secret must be maintained, and the only thing you can do for me will be to take me with you as your maid.'

'Well, be it so. You are determined to damp my spirits; but you shall not succeed. I have a presentiment that everything will go well with me, and with Walter too.'

Florence smiled. And you have a presentiment,' she said, 'that Mr St Quentin will not object to your having a favourite and confidential maid, to whom you are kinder and more considerate than ever lady yet was to Abigail?'

I have a presentiment, Rose, that Mr St Quentin will not interfere with either my feelings or my actions towards you. I shall make you as happy as you can be made, away from Walter, and Mr St Quentin had much better not interfere with me.'

And I will keep my distance and my place, and endeavour to give him no cause.'

Then the sisters-in-law talked of other things, each feeling relieved that the momentous subject of discussion was laid aside for the present. When Miriam and Florence had parted for the night, the young wife went with a heavy trustful heart to her nightly prayers; but the young girl could not go through the form of words. She had not much refinement of mind or sensitiveness of conscience, but she felt that she could not beg the customarily entreated blessing on the events of that day. Afterwards, it would come more easily to do so, when she should be better used to regarding Mr St Quentin as her future husband. Thus did Miriam cheat herself, and belie the sound honest commonsense which she possessed.

Mr St Quentin made his appearance at the Firs on the following day, very accurately dressed, and, to all appearance, in a state of perfect composure and self-complacence. Miriam and Florence witnessed his arrival from Miriam's sitting-room. His equipage was a well-appointed mail-phaeton, and he drove the handsome pair of high-stepping bays himself, with an air which had just a little too much of the ci-devant jeune homme about it, but which did very well indeed for such inexperienced critics as the sisters-in-law. A magnificent bouquet of hot-house flowers, as carefully carried by a groom as if it were somebody's son and heir, was immediately brought to Miss Clint, and she was informed that Mr St Quentin was in the study with master.'

If they

The interview between the two gentlemen lasted longer than Miriam expected, or liked. had agreed, there was so little to discuss that she had expected it would have been over in a very short time. She knew her father was a man of few words, and she concluded, naturally, and correctly, that her elderly suitor would not be unduly anxious to prolong the conversation. Florence had stolen away, and left her alone, and she sat, or rather crouched, on a low oaken settle, which filled up the recess formed by the old-fashioned window, with her elbows on the sill, looking out at the carriage; at the natty groom, who stood at the horses' heads; at the fine spirited animals, who champed their bits, and tossed their heads, and

threw frequent flecks of foam about; at the costly furs which served for the foot-rugs; at the silver mountings of the harness-a little too much becrested-in a word, at the symbol of wealth before her eyes; and, while there was a strange sort of throbbing at her heart, she thought how nice it would be to own this, and the wealth of which it represented only a very small portion.

The interview between Mr Clint and the mature suitor for his young daughter's hand had meantime commenced with some mutual embarrassment, though with much less on Mr St Quentin's part than on that of Miriam's father. The superior knowledge of the world and the business habits of the elderly lover told, as against the morose, awkward, self-engrossment of Reginald Clint, whose native manner was rudeness, as his ruling impulse of mind was distrust.

The preliminaries being despatched, Mr St Quentin proceeded to inform Mr Clint that he proposed to make Miriam an allowance of five hundred pounds a year during his lifetime - he entered on this branch of the subject without any inquiry into Miriam's own possessions or prospects-but that he did not intend to make a settlement upon her.

'Then,' said Mr Clint, that must put an end to the matter. I will not allow my daughter to marry without a settlement.'

'I beg you to be patient for a moment,' said Mr St Quentin. I do not ask you for any fortune with Miss Clint.'

'No,' returned Mr Clint testily; 'and it would be no good, if you did. Miriam shall not have a penny of my money until after my death. I don't mean to part with my money, or any of it, unless I see a very sound reason why. I don't see such a reason in my daughter's marriage, which will remove her from me, and deprive me of any care or attention I might wish to receive from her in the decline of my life.'

Mr St Quentin listened with something approaching to a grin in his features, and with all the sentiments which would call forth such an expression in his mind, but he merely inclined his head, as a signal that he was listening, and said nothing.

I have no faith in anything but self-interest, Mr St Quentin,' continued Mr Clint, with some additional surliness; and I mean my daughter, and my daughter's husband, to have an interest in behaving well to me.'

'If I am so happy as to become Miss Clint's husband, I hope we shall always be good friends.'

That's not the question. You say you do not ask me to give Miriam any money, and I say I never intended to give her any; but when you add that you refuse to make a settlement on Miriam, which is another thing, I tell you quite plainly that I will not consent to my daughter's marrying you under the circumstances-there must be no uncertainty for her.'

beautiful and well-conducted young wife is a prize such as seldom falls in the way of a man of my age; but I think I am justified in declining to make her completely independent of me, in declining to put it entirely out of my own power to influence her by hope or fear' (here he spoke with slight but significant slowness) 'for the future. I only claim what you claim: the right to make the disposition of my fortune conditional upon the degree of happiness I derive from the person who will be the probable inheritor of it. There is not a shadow of probability that that inheritor will not be my widow. I have no relatives, to speak ofmy heir-at-law is a distant cousin, whom I have never seen, for whom I have already done all I ever intend to do, and whom I never purpose to see. I have all the feelings towards Miss Clint which justify me in asking for her hand, and I, naturally, have undoubting faith in their continuance; but I have made up my mind in this instance, as in that of my former marriage, not to make any woman who should become my wife so independent of me as to feel that she has nothing to gain by consulting my wishes and studying my happiness, and nothing to lose by my death.'

Mr Clint's face, during this lengthy explanation of Mr St Quentin's views, delivered with perfect calmness and well-bred ease, was curious to behold. There was cynical admiration combined with dislike in it; he was something puzzled, something baffled, and yet not wholly displeased.

'He is a cooler hand than even I thought him,' was the silent reflection of Mr Clint, as he attended to the irreproachable discourse, and scanned the irreproachable person and attire of his aspirant son-in-law. Who would think a man would do so foolish a thing in so perfectly sensible a way! He is one of "the wisest fools in Christendom," surely.'

He did not reply immediately, and Mr St Quentin exhibited no signs of haste or impatience, though he felt both. He had a pleasant conviction that, backed by Miriam's determination to accept him, he should be more than a match for Mr Clint. He did not fear her being deterred by his reluctance to settle an income upon her, because he judged it impossible that a young girl could understand its significance, and he was very anxious to meet her in the character of his betrothed. Mr Clint made him, after a pause, the exact answer he would have most earnestly desired, but had not ventured to anticipate. He said: 'I don't deny there is a great deal of reason in what you say. Suppose we refer the question of a settlement to Miriam. You offer good terms for the rest, and if she's disposed to risk it, perhaps I may be so also.'

Mr St Quentin gracefully acceded; and after a little further discussion of his circumstances, his views as to a residence, and his projects for the embellishment of Miriam's existence, in which her father was but very moderately interested, the suitor requested permission to see Miss Clint.

Mr Clint, who was very glad to get rid of his visitor, told him he would find Miriam in the

accompanying him thither, and dismissed him with a reference to their meeting again at dinner.

Miriam was in the drawing-room, looking very handsome, and just becomingly agitated. She rose as Mr St Quentin came into the room, and her downcast eyes and brilliant blush were in as

perfect taste as if they had been assumed for the occasion. Nothing could be better than the demeanour of the elderly lover, as he advanced with a hurried step and a smile of triumph, and taking the hand which she neither offered nor withdrew, fervently kissed it.

CHAPTER XII.—EMANCIPATION.

In the small circle within which the affairs of the household at the Firs produced any discussion, the intelligence of Miriam Clint's approaching marriage was received with some diversity of opinion, but with general curiosity. There was considerable inclination to depreciate Mr St Quentin's wealth, and to wonder how a girl of Miriam's age could be so mercenary. Mr and Mrs Cooke, however, took her part in all discussions; and the general dislike entertained towards her father pleaded for her, as the same sentiment had pleaded for Walter, in the very different direction which his wilfulness had given to his own fate.

It has been seen that Mr St Quentin had a rational dislike to delay in the transaction of any business at his time of life, and it followed, therefore, as a matter of course, that he was anxious that his rash but successful proposal to Miriam should be followed as speedily as possible by their marriage. He found his hopes of her acquiescence in the arrangement which her father disapproved, were well founded. Miriam was quite content to forego a settlement, though her father told her, in the most amiable and unrestrained conversation they had ever had together, that he considered her a great fool for yielding, and had no doubt, if she would only hold out, Mr St Quentin would yield. It was evident that that elderly gentleman was very much in love; that the 'admiration' and 'regard' he had expressed had developed themselves into much warmer sentiments, and that Miriam was acquiring more and more power over him day by day. But she told her father quite frankly that she would not use it in the direction of inducing Mr St Quentin to do what he had declared his repugnance to doing. As long as he lives, I shall have as much money as I shall want,' she said; and if I survive him, I think I may safely rely upon having enough influence over him to make him leave me well off.' Thus the matter was left in abeyance, and the marriage was all arranged without the intervention of one of Mr St Quentin's especial aversions, the lawyers.

Happy the wooing that's not long o' doing,' is an adage, more respectable, perhaps, by reason of its antiquity than of its abstract truth. The wooing in this case was effected with as much celerity as was compatible with the care and pains necessarily bestowed upon the important business of purchasing Miriam's trousseau. Mr Clint, having been with difficulty convinced that his daughter could not go up to town for the purpose accompanied only by her maid, was with still greater difficulty induced to go with her, and to submit to the infliction of a three weeks' sojourn in very comfortable apartments, secured for them by Miss Monitor, whose pleasure and fussiness at the prospect of her ex-pupil's marriage were extreme. Miss Monitor had always expected her dear Miriam to do well in the matrimonial line, but in doing so very well as this, she had exceeded her fondest hopes. To any suggestion that the bridegroom might, with advantage, have

been a trifle younger, Miss Monitor would have turned a deaf ear. There was no danger now of Miriam's being condemned to the rurality which she detested, and Mr St Quentin's appearance and manners were as unexceptionable as his position and fortune. Considering that, except on the part of the bridegroom, there was not the least assumption of feeling in the matter, the marriage was all that could be expected.

Mr St Quentin was an attentive, gallant, but not importunate lover. He never intruded upon Miriam's morning hours. His habits were not matutinal, in which respect he differed from most Indian men; and he took a good while to dress. He did it well, with taste, care, and gravity, and was perfectly alive to the importance of the operation at his time of life. Without the least touch of that detestable creature, the elderly dandy, about him, Mr St Quentin always looked, as he was, 'well got-up,' and precise, from the top of his very slightly bald head, to the toe of his well-fitting boots. This sort of thing takes time, and Mr St Quentin objected to being hurried. He liked to breakfast leisurely, to read his papers-he never received any letters more interesting than bills and prospectuses-leisurely; to drive to a florist's for Miriam's daily bouquet, without hurrying himself, and to present himself at Cambridge Terrace, so as to have an interview of half-an-hour's duration with his betrothed, before they went out for the afternoon's shopping. To Miriam's great satisfaction, she found that Mr St Quentin had a liking for theatrical entertainments, and her father did not object to them so strenuously as he objected to most things from which other people derived pleasure. Consequently, the tediousness of an uncongenial association of three, in the evenings, or the awkwardness of a tête-à-tête with a lover, with whom she was not the least in love, was very frequently spared to Miriam. When the party went out in the evenings, Miriam was distressed at being obliged to leave Florence alone, but her sister-in-law consoled her by a perfectly sincere assurance that she never felt lonely. She passed the peaceful hours with her books, her needlework, and the interminable letters to Walter, of which she always had one on hand.

The morning hours being entirely free from intrusion on Mr St Quentin's part, and her father holding himself as much aloof from Miriam in town as he did in the country-though their scanty association was less unpleasant-the sistersin-law went out together, without-the door once closed behind them-keeping up the fiction of their supposed mutual position. They enjoyed these expeditions very much; and Florence had, early in their sojourn in London, taken Miriam to see the city boarding-house in which she and Walter had lived during the months which immediately succeeded their marriage. They had also gone to the cottage on the Eastern Counties' line, and walked up and down the lane, looking tearfully at the tiny garden, and the little window, from which Florence, her fair head framed in climbing roses and honeysuckles, used to watch for Walter in the early summer-time. There were no roses and no green leaves now, and the window was filled up by a ponderous chair, in which sat an imbecile old man, propped up with pillows, who waggled his rickety head at the young women as they lingered near the little gate. It was all so different, so unlike her recollection of it, that