an air of great energy.

'Oh! vicar, where are we to go?' was the question so eager to break
forth.

'Not to the Crystal Palace, Nuttie. The funds won't bear it. Mr.
Dutton says we must spend as little as possible on locomotion.'

'I'm sure I don't care for the Crystal Palace. A trumpery tinsel
place, all shams.'

'Hush, hush, my dear, not so loud,' said the quiet lady; but Nuttie
only wriggled her shoulders, though her voice was a trifle lowered.
'If it were the British Museum now, or Westminster Abbey.'

'Or the Alps,' chimed in a quieter voice, 'or the Ufizzi.'

'Now, Mr. Dutton, that's not what I want. Our people aren't ready
for that, but what they have let it be real. Miss Mary, don't you
see what I mean?'

'Rather better than Miss Egremont herself,' said Mr. Dutton.

'Well,' said the vicar, interposing in the wordy war, 'Mrs.
Greenleaf's children have scarlatina, so we can't go to Horton
Bishop. The choice seems to be between South Beach and Monks
Horton.'

'That's no harm,' cried Nuttie; 'Mrs. Greenleaf is so patronising!'