"People do look at her," observed Mrs. Parkinson.

"Oh! yes, I dare say they do, the gentlemen at least-dear me! and that Mr. Leerwell, too, quite shocking to see them every night on the course, always sure to be riding by her carriage; upon my word, a very regular attendant!-only think! dear me!"

"You were not out, of course, last night," said Mrs. Parkinson.

"Dear no! it was so provoking, I always do miss my drive so. I hear that the bride was out, and he!-he-got wet to the skin."

"Was she?" remarked Mrs. Parkinson, "how very indiscreet to be sure."

"Indiscreet!" exclaimed the languishing lady, "he! he!-that's very good!-a new carriage you see; poor thing, she could not resist the temptation of showing it off for the first time: only think!dear me and all those beautiful orange flowers-" "Spoilt, I suppose," observed Mrs. Parkinson.

"Oh! I suppose so," continued Mrs. Poggleton; "but what does it matter to her. Twelve or fifteen lakhs, and a husband old enough to be her father at the least. Dear me! think of that, Mrs. Parkinson; such dresses you never saw, and jewels too. I know she hates him; but she has got-only think the run of Pittar's and Hamilton's, and that will make her happy for a year."

"Did you hear," asked Mrs. Parkinson, with a smile, "that Miss Dance is going to be married?" "Miss Dance! only think-dear me !-wellwell! wonders will never and to whom? only think! Miss Dance!"

"To Mr. Fast, of the Civil Service," said Mrs. Parkinson.

"Well-well! only to think; a lakh and a half in debt, I believe-with only a thousand a month That's a bad match at all events."

Mrs. Poggleton uttered these last words, as though there was something eminently refreshing in the thought of Miss Dance's having made a bad match; and it is more than probable that she would have manifested her inward satisfaction still more palpably, if a servant had not entered the room at this juncture, and put a loosely folded note with a deep black edge to it into Mrs. Parkinson's hand.

"Bless me!" exclaimed that lady, directly she had perused the contents of it; "how shocking, to be sure!"

The note was in fact one of those dreadful undertaker's circulars, which are sent round to the principal houses in Calcutta, almost immediately an inhabitant dies, to inform the friends of the late Mr. So-and-So, that his "remains will be removed for interment," from his residence in such and such a place at a certain hour of the same afternoon, and which frequently are the first announcements

you receive of the death of some neighbour or acquaintance.

"Who's dead now, pray?" asked Mrs. Poggleton, who was too well used to the sight of these billets not to know their full meaning at a glance; "Who's dead, now, Mrs. Parkinson?"

"Mr. Collingwood," returned Mrs. Parkinson; "it really is quite shocking; he dined with us the day before yesterday-cholera, I suppose―dreadful!" and Mrs. Parkinson endeavoured to look quite overcome, but was not particularly successful..

But Mrs. Poggleton pretended nothing at all: she leant forward, held out her hand for the undertaker's circular, looked rather pleased than otherwise, and said, "Dear me! if it is not the gentleman with that pretty carriage, I declare.”

"Small use to him a pretty carriage now," said Mrs. Parkinson, "the only carriage that he needs is a hearse."

"Oh! but," exclaimed Mrs. Poggleton, with more eagerness than she had manifested throughout the conversation, "I have been dying a long time for that carriage, and now I shall be able to get it. What a nice thing to be sure!"

Upon this Mrs. Parkinson lifted up her hands, and pretended to be immeasurably shocked, muttering to herself, but quite loud enough for every body to hear, that life was a span, and death hanging over us, and that the world might be destroyed to-morrow, for any thing she knew to the contrary,

with sundry other moral reflections of this kind, equally original, and expressive of virtuous emotion.

There was this difference between the two ladies, that, whereas Mrs. Poggleton cared for no one but herself, and took pains to hide her infirmity from no one; Mrs. Parkinson, who was if any thing the more intensely selfish of the two, took the greatest possible trouble to conceal her weakness by expressions of feelings and sympathies, that had no existence anywhere else but in her very fertile imagination. Both were destitute of one spark of generosity-the one was a hypocrite and no fool -the other a fool but no hypocrite. Mrs. Poggleton was ridiculous, but Mrs. Parkinson was dangerous; and Peregrine Pultuney had discovered that truth before he had been twenty minutes in their society.

Having declared in this manner the little concern she felt for the demise of poor Mr. Collingwood, the little lady began to discourse about the stories she had heard of the deceased-how he had been juwabed (refused) by Miss Larkins, and how he had proposed to Miss Sparks-then how Miss Sparks had done something or other, or Mr. Collingwood had done something or other, which had caused the match to be broken off, and how she knew that Mr. Collingwood had written to England for his carriage, and it had come out in the Duke of Bedford, with sundry other interesting

facts concerning the deceased gentleman, all given upon the very best authority; having finished which, she was just beginning to expatiate upon the beauties of some new drawing-room clocks, that had just come out to Mr. Pittar, the jeweller, when a servant came into the room, presented Peregrine Pultuney with a chit, and put a stop to that young gentleman's observations.

Peregrine Pultuney read the note hastily, turned very pale, rose from his seat, and wished Mrs. Parkinson good bye.

"Where are you going, Peregrine?" asked Mrs. Poggleton, "what's the matter? dear me, how strange-only to think-what can be the

matter?"

"I must go," said Peregrine, "I must indeed! a poor friend of mine is dying, and he wishes to see me before he dies."

"Dear me! dying is he," drawled Mrs. Poggleton, "how funny!-how people do die. Sit down, though-it's no use going-perhaps he will be dead before you get there-and then to have had that trouble, all that trouble for nothing."

"It will not be for nothing, indeed,” said Peregrine; "I shall have the inward satisfaction of knowing that I have done my best."

"Inward satisfaction! dear me! what's that?" exclaimed Mrs. Poggleton; and having said this, she thought to herself, "What a griffin the boy is to be sure."