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CHAPTER VI
THE NEW FRIEND

 
‘Maidens should be mild and meek,
Swift to hear, and slow to speak.’
 

Miss Weston had been much interested by what she heard respecting Mrs. Eden, and gladly discovered that she was just the person who could assist in some needlework which was required at Broom Hill.  She asked Lilias to tell her where to find her cottage, and Lily replied by an offer to show her the way; Miss Weston hesitated, thinking that perhaps in the present state of things Lily had rather not see her; but her doubts were quickly removed by this speech, ‘I want to see her particularly.  I have been there three times without finding her.  I think I can set this terrible matter right by speaking to her.’

Accordingly, Lilias and Phyllis set out with Alethea and Marianne one afternoon to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, which stood at the edge of a long field at the top of the hill.  Very fast did Lily talk all the way, but she grew more silent as she came to the cottage, and knocked at the door; it was opened by Mrs. Eden herself, a pale, but rather pretty young woman, with a remarkable gentle and pleasing face, and a manner which was almost ladylike, although her hands were freshly taken out of the wash-tub.  She curtsied low, and coloured at the sight of Lilias, set chairs for the visitors, and then returned to her work.

‘Oh! Mrs. Eden,’ Lily began, intending to make her explanation, but feeling confused, thought it better to wait till her friend’s business was settled, and altered her speech into ‘Miss Weston is come to speak to you about some work.’

Mrs. Eden looked quite relieved, and Alethea proceeded to appoint the day for her coming to Broom Hill, and arrange some small matters, during which Lily not only settled what to say, but worked herself into a fit of impatience at the length of Alethea’s instructions.  When they were concluded, however, and there was a pause, her words failed her, and she wished that she was miles from the cottage, or that she had never mentioned her intentions.  At last she stammered out, ‘Oh! Mrs. Eden—I wanted to speak to you about—about Mr. Devereux and your brother.’

Mrs. Eden bent over her wash-tub, Miss Weston examined the shells on the chimney-piece, Marianne and Phyllis listened with all their ears, and poor Lily was exceedingly uncomfortable.

‘I wished to tell you—I do not think—I do not mean—It was not his saying.  Indeed, he did not say those things about the Gages.’

‘I told my brother I did not think Mr. Devereux would go for to say such a thing,’ said Mrs. Eden, as much confused as Lily.

‘Oh! that was right, Mrs. Eden.  The mischief was all my making and Jane’s.  We said those foolish things, and they were repeated as if it was he.  Oh! do tell your brother so, Mrs. Eden.  It was very good of you to think it was not Cousin Robert.  Pray tell Tom Naylor.  I cannot bear that things should go on in this dreadful way.’

‘Indeed, Miss, I am very sorry,’ said Mrs. Eden.

‘But, Mrs Eden, I am sure that would set it right again,’ said Lily, ‘are not you?  I would do anything to have that poor baby christened.’

Lily’s confidence melted away as she saw that Mrs. Eden’s tears were falling fast, and she ended with, ‘Only tell them, and we shall see what will happen.’

‘Very well, Miss Lilias,’ said Mrs. Eden.  ‘I am very sorry.’

‘Let us hope that time and patience will set things right,’ said Miss Weston, to relieve the embarrassment of both parties.  ‘Your brother must soon see that Mr. Devereux only wishes to do his duty.’

Alethea skilfully covered Lily’s retreat, and the party took leave of Mrs. Eden, and turned into their homeward path.

Lily at first seemed disposed to be silent, and Miss Weston therefore amused herself with listening to the chatter of the little girls as they walked on before them.

‘There are only thirty-six days to the holidays,’ said Phyllis; ‘Ada and I keep a paper in the nursery with the account of the number of days.  We shall be so glad when Claude, and Maurice, and Redgie come home.’

‘Are they not very boisterous?’ said Marianne.

‘Not Maurice,’ said Phyllis.

‘No, indeed,’ said Lily, ‘Maurice is like nobody else.  He takes up some scientific pursuit each time he comes home, and cares for nothing else for some time, and then quite forgets it.  He is an odd-looking boy too, thick and sturdy, with light flaxen hair, and dark, overhanging eyebrows, and he makes the most extraordinary grimaces.’

‘And Reginald?’ said Alethea.

‘Oh! Redgie is a noble-looking fellow.  But just eleven, and taller than Jane.  His complexion so fair, yet fresh and boyish, and his eyes that beautiful blue that Ada’s are—real blue.  Then his hair, in dark brown waves, with a rich auburn shine.  The old knights must have been just like Redgie.  And Claude—Oh! Miss Weston, have you ever seen Claude?’

‘No, but I have seen your eldest brother.’

‘William?  Why, he has been in Canada these three years.  Where could you have seen him?’

‘At Brighton, about four years ago.’

‘Ah! the year before he went.  I remember that his regiment was there.  Well, it is curious that you should know him; and did you ever hear of Harry, the brother that we lost?’

‘I remember Captain Mohun’s being called away to Oxford by his illness,’ said Alethea.

‘Ah, yes!  William was the only one of us who was with him, even papa was not there.  His illness was so short.’

‘Yes,’ said Alethea, ‘I think it was on a Tuesday that Captain Mohun left Brighton, and we saw his death in the paper on Saturday.’

‘William only arrived the evening that he died.  Papa was gone to Ireland to see about Cousin Rotherwood’s property.  Robert, not knowing that, wrote to him at Beechcroft; Eleanor forwarded the letter without opening it, and so we knew nothing till Robert came to tell us that all was over.’

‘Without any preparation?’

‘With none.  Harry had left home about ten days before, quite well, and looking so handsome.  You know what a fine-looking person William is.  Well, Harry was very like him, only not so tall and strong, with the same clear hazel eyes, and more pink in his cheeks—fairer altogether.  Then Harry wrote, saying that he had caught one of his bad colds.  We did not think much of it, for he was always having coughs.  We heard no more for a week, and then one morning Eleanor was sent for out of the schoolroom, and there was Robert come to tell us.  Oh! it was such a thunderbolt.  This was what did the mischief.  You know papa and mamma being from home so long, the elder boys had no settled place for the holidays; sometimes they stayed with one friend, sometimes with another, and so no one saw enough of them to find out how delicate poor Harry really was.  I think papa had been anxious the only winter they were at home together, and Harry had been talked to and advised to take care; but in the summer and autumn he was well, and did not think about it.  He went to Oxford by the coach—it was a bitterly cold frosty day—there was a poor woman outside, shivering and looking very ill, and Harry changed places with her.  He was horribly chilled, but thinking he had only a common cold, he took no care.  Robert, coming to Oxford about a week after, found him very ill, and wrote to papa and William, but William scarcely came in time.  Harry just knew him, and that was all.  He could not speak, and died that night.  Then William stayed at Oxford to receive papa, and Robert came to tell us.’

‘It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘Such a loss—he was so very good and clever.  Every one looked up to him—William almost as much as the younger ones.  He never was in any scrape, had all sorts of prizes at Eton, besides getting his scholarship before he was seventeen.’

Whenever Lily could get Miss Weston alone, it was her way to talk in this manner.  She loved the sound of her own voice so well, that she was never better satisfied than when engrossing the whole conversation.  Having nothing to talk of but her books, her poor people, and her family, she gave her friend the full benefit of all she could say on each subject, while Alethea had kindness enough to listen with real interest to her long rambling discourses, well pleased to see her happy.

The next time they met, Lilias told her all she knew or imagined respecting Eleanor, and of her own debate with Claude, and ended, ‘Now, Miss Weston, tell me your opinion, which would you choose for a sister, Eleanor or Emily?’

‘I have some experience of Miss Mohun’s delightful manners, and none of Mrs. Hawkesworth’s, so I am no fair judge,’ said Alethea.

‘I really have done justice to Eleanor’s sterling goodness,’ said Lily.  ‘Now what should you think?’

‘I can hardly imagine greater proofs of affection than Mrs. Hawkesworth has given you,’ said Miss Weston, smiling.

‘It was because it was her duty,’ said Lilias.  ‘You have only heard the facts, but you cannot judge of her ways and looks.  Now only think, when Frank came home, after seven years of perils by field and flood—there she rose up to receive him as if he had been Mr. Nobody making a morning call.  And all the time before they were married, I do believe she thought more of showing Emily how much tea we were to use in a week than anything else.’

‘Perhaps some people might have admired her self-command,’ said Alethea.

‘Self-command, the refuge of the insensible?  And now, I told you about dear Harry the other day.  He was Eleanor’s especial brother, yet his death never seemed to make any difference to her.  She scarcely cried: she heard our lessons as usual, talked in her quiet voice—showed no tokens of feeling.’

‘Was her health as good as before?’ asked Miss Weston.

‘She was not ill,’ said Lily; ‘if she had, I should have been satisfied.  She certainly could not take long walks that winter, but she never likes walking.  People said she looked ill, but I do not know.’

‘Shall I tell you what I gather from your history?’

‘Pray do.’

‘Then do not think me very perverse, if I say that perhaps the grief she then repressed may have weighed down her spirits ever since, so that you can hardly remember any alteration.’

‘That I cannot,’ said Lily.  ‘She is always the same, but then she ought to have been more cheerful before his death.’

‘Did not you lose him soon after your mother?’ said Alethea.

‘Two whole years,’ said Lily.  ‘Oh! and aunt, Robert too, and Frank went to India the beginning of that year; yes, there was enough to depress her, but I never thought of grief going on in that quiet dull way for so many years.’

‘You would prefer one violent burst, and then forgetfulness?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Lily; ‘but I should like a little evidence of it.  If it is really strong, it cannot be hid.’

Little did Lily think of the grief that sat heavy upon the spirit of Alethea, who answered—‘Some people can do anything that they consider their duty.’

‘Duty: what, are you a duty lover?’ exclaimed Lilias.  ‘I never suspected it, because you are not disagreeable.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alethea, laughing, ‘your compliment rather surprises me, for I thought you told me that your brother Claude was on the duty side of the question.’

‘He thinks he is,’ said Lily, ‘but love is his real motive of action, as I can prove to you.  Poor Claude had a very bad illness when he was about three years old; and ever since he has been liable to terrible headaches, and he is not at all strong.  Of course he cannot always study hard, and when first he went to school, every one scolded him for being idle.  I really believe he might have done more, but then he was so clever that he could keep up without any trouble, and, as Robert says, that was a great temptation; but still papa was not satisfied, because he said Claude could do better.  So said Harry.  Oh! you cannot think what a person Harry was, as high-spirited as William, and as gentle as Claude; and in his kind way he used to try hard to make Claude exert himself, but it never would do—he was never in mischief, but he never took pains.  Then Harry died, and when Claude came home, and saw how changed things were, how gray papa’s hair had turned, and how silent and melancholy William had grown, he set himself with all his might to make up to papa as far as he could.  He thought only of doing what Harry would have wished, and papa himself says that he has done wonders.  I cannot see that Henry himself could have been more than Claude is now; he has not spared himself in the least, his tutor says, and he would have had the Newcastle Scholarship last year, if he had not worked so hard that he brought on one of his bad illnesses, and was obliged to come home.  Now I am sure that he has acted from love, for it was as much his duty to take pains while Harry was alive as afterwards.’

‘Certainly,’ said Miss Weston, ‘but what does he say himself?’

‘Oh! he never will talk of himself,’ said Lily.

‘Have you not overlooked one thing which may be the truth,’ said Alethea, as if she was asking for information, ‘that duty and love may be identical?  Is not St. Paul’s description of charity very like the duty to our neighbour?’

‘The practice is the same, but not the theory,’ said Lily.

‘Now, what is called duty, seems to me to be love doing unpleasant work,’ said Miss Weston; ‘love disguised under another name, when obliged to act in a way which seems, only seems, out of accordance with its real title.’

‘That is all very well for those who have love,’ said Lily.  ‘Some have not who do their duty conscientiously—another word which I hate, by the bye.’

‘They have love in a rough coat, perhaps,’ said Alethea, ‘and I should expect it soon to put on a smoother one.’

CHAPTER VII
SIR MAURICE

 
‘Shall thought was his, in after time,
Thus to be hitched into a rhyme;
The simple sire could only boast
That he was loyal to his cost,
The banished race of kings revered,
And lost his land.’
 

The holidays arrived, and with them the three brothers, for during the first few weeks of the Oxford vacation Claude accompanied Lord Rotherwood on visits to some college friends, and only came home the same day as the younger ones.

Maurice did not long leave his sisters in doubt as to what was to be his reigning taste, for as soon as dinner was over, he made Jane find the volume of the Encyclopædia containing Entomology, and with his elbows on the table, proceeded to study it so intently, that the young ladies gave up all hopes of rousing him from it.  Claude threw himself down on the sofa to enjoy the luxury of a desultory talk with his sisters; and Reginald, his head on the floor, and his heels on a chair, talked loud and fast enough for all three, with very little regard to what the damsels might be saying.

‘Oh! Claude,’ said Lily, ‘you cannot think how much we like Miss Weston, she lets us call her Alethea, and—’

Here came an interruption from Mr. Mohun, who perceiving the position of Reginald’s dusty shoes, gave a loud ‘Ah—h!’ as if he was scolding a dog, and ordered him to change them directly.

‘Here, Phyl!’ said Reginald, kicking off his shoes, ‘just step up and bring my shippers, Rachel will give them to you.’

Away went Phyllis, well pleased to be her brother’s fag.

‘Ah!  Redgie does not know the misfortune that hangs over him,’ said Emily.

‘What?’ said Reginald, ‘will not the Baron let Viper come to the house?’

‘Worse,’ said Emily, ‘Rachel is going away.’

‘Rachel?’ cried Claude, starting up from the sofa.

‘Rachel?’ said Maurice, without raising his eyes.

‘Rachel!  Rachel! botheration!’ roared Reginald, with a wondrous caper.

‘Yes, Rachel,’ said Emily; ‘Rachel, who makes so much of you, for no reason that I could ever discover, but because you are the most troublesome.’

‘You will never find any one to mend your jackets, and dress your wounds like Rachel,’ said Lily, ‘and make a baby of you instead of a great schoolboy.  What will become of you, Redgie?’

‘What will become of any of us?’ said Claude; ‘I thought Rachel was the mainspring of the house.’

‘Have you quarrelled with her, Emily?’ said Reginald.

‘Nonsense,’ said Emily, ‘it is only that her brother has lost his wife, and wants her to take care of his children.’

‘Well,’ said Reginald, ‘her master has lost his wife, and wants her to take care of his children.’

‘I cannot think what I shall do,’ said Ada; ‘I cry about it every night when I go to bed.  What is to be done?’

‘Send her brother a new wife,’ said Maurice.

‘Send him Emily,’ said Reginald; ‘we could spare her much better.’

‘Only I don’t wish him joy,’ said Maurice.

‘Well, I hope you wish me joy of my substitute,’ said Emily; ‘I do not think you would ever guess, but Lily, after being in what Rachel calls quite a way, has persuaded every one to let us have Esther Bateman.’

‘What, the Baron?’ said Claude, in surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Lily, ‘is it not delightful?  He said at first, Emily was too inexperienced to teach a young servant; but then we settled that Hannah should be upper servant, and Esther will only have to wait upon Phyl and Ada.  Then he said Faith Longley was of a better set of people, but I am sure it would give one the nightmare to see her lumbering about the house, and then he talked it over with Robert and with Rachel.’

‘And was not Rachel against it, or was she too kind to her young ladies?’

‘Oh! she was cross when she talked it over with us,’ said Lily; ‘but we coaxed her over, and she told the Baron it would do very well.’

‘And Robert?’

‘He was quite with us, for he likes Esther as much as I do,’ said lily.

‘Now, Lily,’ said Jane, ‘how can you say he was quite with you, when he said he thought it would be better if she was farther from home, and under some older person?’

‘Yes, but he allowed that she would be much safer here than at home,’ said Lily.

‘But I thought she used to be the head of all the ill behaviour in school,’ said Claude.

‘Oh! that was in Eleanor’s time,’ said Lily; ‘there was nothing to draw her out, she never was encouraged; but since she has been in my class, and has found that her wishes to do right are appreciated and met by affection, she has been quite a new creature.’

‘Since she has been in MY class,’ Claude repeated.

‘Well,’ said Lily, with a slight blush, ‘it is just what Robert says.  He told her, when he gave her her prize Bible on Palm Sunday, that she had been going on very well, but she must take great care when removed from those whose influence now guided her, and who could he have meant but me?  And now she is to go on with me always.  She will be quite one of the old sort of faithful servants, who feel that they owe everything to their masters, and will it not be pleasant to have so sweet and expressive a face about the house?’

‘Do I know her face?’ said Claude.  ‘Oh yes!  I do.  She has black eyes, I think, and would be pretty if she did not look pert.’

‘You provoking Claude!’ cried Lily, ‘you are as bad as Alethea, who never will say that Esther is the best person for us.’

‘I was going to inquire for the all-for-love principle,’ said Claude, ‘but I see it is in full force.  And how are the verses, Lily?  Have you made a poem upon Michael Moone, or Mohun, the actor, our uncle, whom I discovered for you in Pepys’s Memoirs?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lily; ‘but I have been writing something about Sir Maurice, which you shall hear whenever you are not in this horrid temper.’

The next afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over, Lily drew Claude out to his favourite place under the plane-tree, where she proceeded to inflict her poem upon his patient ears, while he lay flat upon the grass looking up to the sky; Emily and Jane had promised to join them there in process of time, and the four younger ones were, as usual, diverting themselves among the farm buildings at the Old Court.

Lily began: ‘I meant to have two parts about Sir Maurice going out to fight when he was very young, and then about his brothers being killed, and King Charles knighting him, and his betrothed, Phyllis Crossthwayte, embroidering his black engrailed cross on his banner, and then the taking the castle, and his being wounded, and escaping, and Phyllis not thinking it right to leave her father; but I have not finished that, so now you must hear about his return home.’

 
‘A romaunt in six cantos, entitled Woe woe,
By Miss Fanny F. known more commonly so,’
 

muttered Claude to himself; but as Lily did not understand or know whence his quotation came, it did not hurt her feelings, and she went merrily on:—

 
‘’Tis the twenty-ninth of merry May;
Full cheerily shine the sunbeams to-day,
   Their joyous light revealing
Full many a troop in garments gay,
With cheerful steps who take their way
   By the green hill and shady lane,
While merry bells are pealing;
   And soon in Beechcroft’s holy fane
The villagers are kneeling.
Dreary and mournful seems the shrine
Where sound their prayers and hymns divine;
   For every mystic ornament
   By the rude spoiler’s hand is rent;
   Scarce is its ancient beauty traced
   In wood-work broken and defaced,
   Reft of each quaint device and rare,
   Of foliage rich and mouldings fair;
   Yet happy is each spirit there;
      The simple peasantry rejoice
   To see the altar decked with care,
      To hear their ancient Pastor’s voice
   Reciting o’er each well-known prayer,
   To view again his robe of white,
   And hear the services aright;
   Once more to chant their glorious Creed,
   And thankful own their nation freed
   From those who cast her glories down,
   And rent away her Cross and Crown.
   A stranger knelt among the crowd,
   And joined his voice in praises loud,
   And when the holy rites had ceased,
   Held converse with the aged Priest,
   Then turned to join the village feast,
   Where, raised on the hill’s summit green,
   The Maypole’s flowery wreaths were seen;
   Beneath the venerable yew
   The stranger stood the sports to view,
   Unmarked by all, for each was bent
   On his own scheme of merriment,
   On talking, laughing, dancing, playing—
   There never was so blithe a Maying.
   So thought each laughing maiden gay,
   Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray;
   So thought that hand of shouting boys,
   Unchecked in their best joy—in noise;
   But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars
   Bore token of the civil wars,
   And hooded dames in cloaks of red,
   At the blithe youngsters shook the head,
   Gathering in eager clusters told
   How joyous were the days of old,
   When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold,
   Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,
   And here to hold their rustic court,
   Throned in the ancient chair you see
   Beneath our noble old yew tree.
   Alas! all empty stands the throne,
   Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,
   And the old folks can only tell
   Of the good lords who ruled so well.
   “Ah!  I bethink me of the time,
   The last before those years of crime,
   When with his open hearty cheer,
   The good old squire was sitting here.”
   “’Twas then,” another voice replied,
   “That brave young Master Maurice tried
   To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey—
   We ne’er shall see so blithe a day—
      All the young squires have long been dead.”
   “No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,
      “Young Master Maurice safely fled,
   At least so all the Greenwoods say,
   And Walter Greenwood with him went
   To share his master’s banishment;
   And now King Charles is ruling here,
   Our own good landlord may be near.”
   “Small hope of that,” the old man said,
   And sadly shook his hoary head,
   “Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,
   Last of his noble line was he.”
   “Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there
   The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;
   At ease he sat, and smiled to scan
   The face of each astonished man;
   Then on the ground he laid aside
   His plumed hat and mantle wide.
   One moment, Andrew deemed he knew
   Those glancing eyes of hazel hue,
   But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,
   The lines of white that streak the hair—
   How can this he the stripling gay,
   Erst, victor in the sports of May?
   Full twenty years of cheerful toil,
   And labour on his native soil,
   On Andrew’s head had left no trace—
      The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,
   They had but ruddier made his face,
      More hard his hand, more strong his form.
   Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd,
   A farmer came, and spoke aloud,
   With rustic bow and welcome fair,
   But with a hesitating air—
   He told how custom well preserved
   The throne for Mohun’s race reserved;
   The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington,
   Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?”
   Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,
   On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,
   And still remembered is the day,
   That merry twenty-ninth of May,
   When to his father’s home returned
   That knight, whose glory well was earned.
   In poverty and banishment,
   His prime of manhood had been spent,
   A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court,
   One faithful servant his support.
   And now, he seeks his home forlorn,
   Broken in health, with sorrow worn.
   And two short years just passed away,
   Between that joyous meeting-day,
   And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell
   Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;
And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried,
Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride;
Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight,
Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light,
And still his descendants shall sing of the fame
Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’
 

‘It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,’ said Claude.  ‘Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.’

‘Oh! here come Emily and Jane,’ said Lily, ‘let me put it away.’

‘You are very much afraid of Jane,’ said Claude.

‘Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,’ said Lily, with simplicity, which made her brother smile.

Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a camp-stool and a book.  ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘where those boys are!  By the bye, what character did they bring home from school?’

‘The same as usual,’ said Claude.  ‘Maurice’s mind only half given to his work, and Redgie’s whole mind to his play.’

‘Maurice’s talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,’ said Emily.

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.’

‘Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great a point were made of them,’ said Lily.

‘I think not,’ said Claude; ‘he has more notion of them than of Latin verses.’

‘Then you are on my side,’ said Jane, triumphantly.

‘Did I say so?’ said Claude.

‘Why not?’ said Jane.  ‘What is the use of his knowing those stupid languages?  I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as he has for mechanics and natural history.  Now, Claude, I wish you would answer.’

‘I was waiting till you had done,’ said Claude.

‘Why do you not think it nonsense?’ persisted Jane.

‘Because I respect my father’s opinion,’ said Claude, letting himself fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.

‘Pooh!’ said Jane, ‘that sounds like a good little boy of five years old!’

‘Very likely,’ said Claude.

‘But you have some opinion of your own,’ said Lily.

‘Certainly.’

‘Then I wish you would give it,’ said Jane.

‘Come, Emily,’ said Claude, ‘have you brought anything to read?’

‘But your opinion, Claude,’ said Jane.  ‘I am sure you think with me, only you are too grand, and too correct to say so.’

Claude made no answer, but Jane saw she was wrong by his countenance; before she could say anything more, however, they were interrupted by a great outcry from the Old Court regions.

‘Oh,’ said Emily, ‘I thought it was a long time since we had heard anything of those uproarious mortals.’

‘I hope there is nothing the matter,’ said Lily.

‘Oh no,’ said Jane, ‘I hear Redgie’s laugh.’

‘Aye, but among that party,’ said Emily, ‘Redgie’s laugh is not always a proof of peace: they are too much in the habit of acting the boys and the frogs.’

‘We were better off,’ said Lily, ‘with the gentle Claude, as Miss Middleton used to call him.’

‘Miss Molly, as William used to call him with more propriety,’ said Claude, ‘not half so well worth playing with as such a fellow as Redgie.’

‘Not even for young ladies?’ said Emily.

‘No, Phyllis and Ada are much the better for being teased,’ said Claude.  ‘I am convinced that I never did my duty by you in that respect.’

‘There were others to do it for you,’ said Jane.

‘Harry never teased,’ said Emily, ‘and William scorned us.’

‘His teasing was all performed upon Claude,’ said Lily, ‘and a great shame it was.’

‘Not at all,’ said Claude, ‘only an injudicious attempt to put a little life into a tortoise.’

‘A bad comparison,’ said Lily; ‘but what is all this?  Here come the children in dismay!  What is the matter, my dear child?’

This was addressed to Phyllis, who was the first to come up at full speed, sobbing, and out of breath, ‘Oh, the dragon-fly!  Oh, do not let him kill it!’

‘The dragon-fly, the poor dear blue dragon-fly!’ screamed Adeline, hiding her face in Emily’s lap, ‘Oh, do not let him kill it! he is holding it; he is hurting it!  Oh, tell him not!’

‘I caught it,’ said Phyllis, ‘but not to have it killed.  Oh, take it away!’

‘A fine rout, indeed, you chicken,’ said Reginald; ‘I know a fellow who ate up five horse-stingers one morning before breakfast.’

‘Stingers!’ said Phyllis, ‘they do not sting anything, pretty creatures.’

‘I told you I would catch the old pony and put it on him to try,’ said Reginald.

In the meantime, Maurice came up at his leisure, holding his prize by the wings.  ‘Look what a beautiful Libellulla Puella,’ said he to Jane.

‘A demoiselle dragon-fly,’ said Lily; ‘what a beauty! what are you going to do with it?’

‘Put it into my museum,’ said Maurice.  ‘Here, Jane, put it under this flower-pot, and take care of it, while I fetch something to kill it with.’

‘Oh, Maurice, do not!’ said Emily.

‘One good squeeze,’ said Reginald.  ‘I will do it.’

‘How came you be so cruel?’ said Lily.

‘No, a squeeze will not do,’ said Maurice; ‘it would spoil its beauty; I must put it ever the fumes of carbonic acid.’

‘Maurice, you really must not,’ said Emily.

‘Now do not, dear Maurice,’ said Ada, ‘there’s a dear boy; I will give you such a kiss.’