"We have very few books," said Fanny, hesitating; "we had not much
choice where we were."

"You should have written to me for a selection."

"Why--so we would, but there was always a talk of sending Conrade and
Francis home. I am afraid you will think them very backward, dear
Rachel, especially Francie; but it is not their fault, dear children,
and they are not used to strangers," added Fanny, nervously.

"I do not mean to be a stranger," said Rachel.

And while Fanny, in confusion, made loving protestations about not
meaning that, Rachel stepped out upon the lawn, and in her clear
voice called "Conrade, Francis!" No answer. She called "Conrade"
again, and louder, then turned round with "where can they be--not
gone down on the beach?"

"Oh, dear no, I trust not," said the mother, flurried, and coming to
the window with a call that seemed to Rachel's ears like the roar of
a sucking dove.

But from behind the bushes forth came the two young gentlemen, their
black garments considerably streaked with the green marks of laurel
climbing.

"Oh, my dears, what figures you are! Go to Coombe and get yourselves
brushed, and wash your hands, and then come down, and bring your
lesson books."