is confined to half a dozen turnipy squires and their wives; and yet he
is looking snubbed, and it is I that have snubbed him. Well, I cannot
help it. Truth is truth; and so I answer, in a low voice:

"No, father said I was to."

"And you look upon it as a great penance?" he says, still with that
half-disappointed accent.

"To be sure I do," reply I, briskly. "So does Barbara. Ask her if she
does not. So would you, if you were I."

"And why?"

"Hush!" say I, hearing a certain heavy, well-known, slow footfall. "He
is coming! I will tell you by-and-by--when we are by ourselves."

After all, how convenient an elderly man is! I could not have said that
to any of the young squires!

His blue eyes are smiling in the firelight, as, leaning one strong
shoulder against the mantel-piece, he turns to face me more fully.

"And when are we likely to be by ourselves?"

"Oh, I do not know," reply I, indifferently. "Any time."

And then father enters, and I am dumb. Presently, dinner is announced,
and we walk in; I on father's arm. He addresses me several times with
great _bonhomie_ and I respond with nervous monosyllables. Father is