1.
Rufford, Sunday.
MY DEAR MISS TREFOIL, We have had a sad house since you left us.

Poor Caneback got better and then worse and then better,--and at last died yesterday afternoon.

And now;--there is to be the funeral! The poor dear old boy seems to have had nobody belonging to him and very little in the way of possessions.

I never knew anything of him except that he was, or had been, in the Blues, and that he was about the best man in England to hounds on a bad horse.

It now turns out that his father made some money in India,--a sort of Commissary purveyor,--and bought a commission for him twenty-five years ago.