The world, created and peopled by Jane Austen, is imperfect only in being too small. We pass through the magic door into fairyland, and hardly have we shed the muddy vesture of our vulgar, strident con?ict beyond, than we find ourselves once more faced with the necessity Of resuming it. What would not those of us who love Pride and Prejudice give for the discovery of another half dozen novels by the same hand, comparable with it?