quite different to any he had seen before, and as most unfit to mate with Jemima.  Mr. Hickson, who had appeared as a model of gentlemanly ease before Mr. Donne’s arrival, now became vulgar and coarse in Bradshaw’s eyes.  And yet, such was the charm of that languid, high-bred manner, that Mr. Bradshaw “cottoned” (as he expressed it to Mr. Farquhar) to his new candidate at once.  He was only afraid lest Mr. Donne was too indifferent to all things under the sun to care whether he gained or lost the election; but he was reassured after the first conversation they had together on the subject.  Mr. Donne’s eye lightened with an eagerness that was almost fierce, though his tones were as musical, and nearly as slow, as ever; and, when Mr. Bradshaw alluded distantly to “probable expenses” and “packets,” Mr. Donne replied—­

“Oh, of course! disagreeable necessity!  Better speak as little about such things as possible; other people can be found to arrange all the dirty work.  Neither you nor I would like to soil our fingers by it, I am sure.  Four thousand pounds are in Mr. Pilson’s hands, and I shall never inquire what becomes of them; they may, very probably, be absorbed in the law expenses, you know.  I shall let it be clearly understood from the hustings that I most decidedly disapprove of bribery, and leave the rest to Hickson’s management.  He is accustomed to these sort of things; I am not.”

Mr. Bradshaw was rather perplexed by this want of bustling energy on the part of the new candidate; and if it had not been for the four thousand pounds aforesaid, would have doubted whether Mr. Donne cared sufficiently for the result of the election.  Jemima thought differently.  She watched her father’s visitor attentively, with something like the curious observation which a naturalist bestows on a new species of animal.

“Do you know what Mr. Donne reminds me of, mamma?” said she, one day, as the two sat at work, while the gentlemen were absent canvassing.

“No! he is not like anybody I ever saw.  He quite frightens me, by being so ready to open the door for me if I am going out of the room, and by giving me a chair when I come in.  I never saw any one like him.  Who is it, Jemima?”

“Not any person—­not any human being, mamma,” said Jemima, half smiling.  “Do you remember our stopping at Wakefield once, on our way to Scarborough, and there were horse-races going on somewhere, and some of the racers were in the stables at the inn where we dined?”

“Yes!  I remember it; but what about that?”

“Why, Richard, somehow, knew one of the jockeys, and, as we were coming in from our ramble through the town, this man, or boy, asked us to look at one of the racers he had the charge of.”

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, mamma!  Mr. Donne is like that horse!”

“Nonsense, Jemima; you must not say so.  I don’t know what your father would say if he heard you likening Mr. Donne to a brute.”