We had our choice given us whether we would spend our Christmas holidays with our most kind and estimable old relative, our mother's cousin, Miss Gillespie, in Russell-square, and go to the theatre and panoramas, and other highly edifying entertainments, or at Foxholme, in the New Forest, with our great uncle, Sir Hugh Worsley. "Foxholme for ever, I should think indeed " exclaimed my brother Jack, making a face which was not complimentary to Cousin Barbara. "But she is a good kind old soul, if she wasn't so pokerish and prim; and that was a dead-alive fortnight we spent with her two winters ago. I say Foxholme for ever." "Foxholme for ever," I repeated. "Of course there couldn't be the thinnest slice of a shadow of doubt about the matter. There'll be Cousin Peter, and Julia, and Tom and Ned Oxenberry, and Sam Barnby, and Ponto, and Hector, and Beauty, and Polly; and there'll be hunting, and shooting, and skating, if there's a frost-and of course there will be a frost-and, oh, it will be such jolly fun " A few weeks after this we were bowling along the road to Southampton on the top of the old Telegraph, driven by Taylor-as fine a specimen of a Jehu as ever took whip in hand-with four white horses-a team of which he was justly proud.