"Never mind, Gathy," old Gervase had observed. "If the impudent
young puppy comes here again, we'll see what Thomas can do with the
horse-whip."

"Poor dear child," Mrs. Gervase added in telling the tale, "and she was
so fond of him too. But of course it couldn't go on after his shameful
behavior."

But Lucian was troubled; he sought vainly for the ideal womanly, the
tender note of "come rest on this bosom." Ministering angels, he felt
convinced, do not rub red pepper and sulfuric acid into the wounds of
suffering mortals.

Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughan, a squire in the neighborhood, at
whose board all the aristocracy of Caermaen had feasted for years. Mr.
Vaughan had a first-rate cook, and his cellar was rare, and he was
never so happy as when he shared his good things with his friends. His
mother kept his house, and they delighted all the girls with frequent
dances, while the men sighed over the amazing champagne. Investments
proved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughan had to sell the grey manor-house by
the river. He and his mother took a little modern stucco villa in
Caermaen, wishing to be near their dear friends. But the men were "very
sorry; rough on you, Vaughan. Always thought those Patagonians were
risky, but you wouldn't hear of it. Hope we shall see you before very
long; you and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas."

"Of course we are all very sorry for them," said Henrietta Dixon. "No, we
haven't called on Mrs. Vaughan yet. They have no regular servant, you
know; only a woman in the morning. I hear old mother Vaughan, as Edward