My mind turned involuntarily homewards, and I drew a picture from life.

A faithful nurse stands at the door; a young lady about twelve is mounting; a groom is on another horse, with a leading-rein strong enough to hold a line-of-battle ship in a gale of wind.

The old nurse takes as long packing the young lady as if she were about to make a tour of the globe; sundry whispers are going on all the time, the purport of which is easily guessed.

At last all excuses are exhausted, and off they go.

The lady's nag jog-trots a little; the nurse's voice is heard--"Walk, walk, that's a dear! walk till you're comfortable in the saddle.