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Mr. Glentworth had not taken his young bride to any of the more noted scenes; those he kept for a time when the imagination might need more stimulus; now he contented himself with a quiet journey through a secluded part, whose beauty consisted only in those green fields and lanes which are peculiar to England. Placed under no necessity to admire, she enjoyed every thing; and she was never weary of the drive or walk through a country, which, accustomed as she was to a dull, dark street, seemed to her "an opening paradise." Mr. Glentworth was delighted with the fresh pure taste, whose enjoyments were so simple and yet so vivid; and when, let her be doing what she would, he was caught sight of at the first glance, and she sprang to meet him, her hands filled with flowers, and her cheek as bright, he could not but admit the felicity of being so beloved. He now made his appearance at the end of the walk; she seemed to know it by intuition, for she turned instantly, and, in another moment, her arm was in his, and they had entered the breakfast-room. If the fields of long rich grass—the hedges where a few late sprays of hawthorn were still in bloom—if these were thoroughly English, so was the little inn parlour, with its white curtains, where the roses looked in at the window. The breakfast table, which, at Isabella's request, had been drawn close to the open casement, seemed the picture of comfort. Most of the articles were home-made; the bread, the yellow butter, as golden as the cups to