occupations, if he were not immediately rallied round by a little court
of flatterers.

"Estelle," said the governess, "offer your papa your mallet, and ask him
to be so kind as to play with us." The child's face lengthened; she had
not much hope of his refusing it, but advanced with her request.

"Must I?" said the Colonel.

"Oh, yes!" said the chorus of voices; "be my partner--be mine."

"Don't tear me to pieces among you," said he, with a deprecating gesture.

"Take Bluebell on your side, papa," cried Cecil; "she is very good, and
we'll keep Miss Prosody, who is equally so."

And thus they proceeded, the Colonel radiant with every successful
stroke, and blaming mallet, ball, and ground when otherwise, reiterating,
"I can't make a stroke to-day."

Bluebell was very fond of the Colonel, who liked pretty faces about him,
and had been kind to her; but she could not resist a slight feeling of
repulsion at what she considered an abject maneuver of Miss Prosody's.
His ball, by an unskilful miss, was left in her power; her duty to her
side required her to crack it to the other end of the ground, but a
glance at the irritable gloom of his countenance induced her to discover
it to be more to her advantage to attack one rather beyond, and,
judiciously missing it left her own blue one an easy stroke for him.

The shadows dispersed, and, all playfulness, the Colonel apostrophized