"Wish me good-morning," say I, rubbing my eyes, "for I have been sweetly
asleep. I fell asleep wondering which of you would come first--somehow I
thought it would be you. Are you going to sit here? Oh! that is all
right!" as he subsides into the next division of the ottoman to mine.
"What have you been talking about?" I continue, with a contented, chatty
feeling, leaning my elbow on the blue-satin ottoman-top; "any thing
pleasant? Did not you hear our screams for help through the wall?"

"Have not we come in answer to them?"

Yes; they are all here now, at last; all, from father down to the
curates; some sitting resolutely down, some standing uncertainly up.
Barbara's _protégé_ with frightened stealth, is edging round the
furniture to where she sits on a little chair alone. Barbara is
locketless, braceletless, chainless, head-dressless! such was our
unparalleled haste to abscond. Ornaments has she none but those that God
has given her: a sweep of blond hair, a long, cool throat, and two
smooth arms that lie bare and white as any milk on her lap. As he
nervously draws near, she lifts her eyes with a lovely friendliness to
his face. He is poor, slightly thought of, sickly, not over-clever;
probably she will talk to him all the evening.

"Look at Barbara!" say I, with deep admiration, familiarly laying my
hand on Sir Roger's coat-sleeve, to make sure of engaging his attention,
"that is always her way! Did you ever see any thing so cruelly shy as
that poor little man is? See! he is wriggling all over like an eel! He
came to call the other day, and while he was talking to mother I watched
him. He tore a pair of quite new tea-green gloves into thin strips, like
little thongs! He must find it rather expensive work, if he makes many
morning calls, must he not?"