grave unbending father. She could not conjure up any more
comfortable picture of them than the child uneasily perched on his
papa's knee, looking wistfully for a way of escape, and his father
with an air of having lifted him up as a duty, without knowing what
to do with him or to say to him.

At her earnest advice, the little fellow had been placed as a boarder
with his great aunt, Mrs. Frost, when his grandmother's death had
deprived him of all that was homelike at Ormersfield, He had been
with her till he was old enough for a public school, and she spoke of
him as if he were no less dear to her than her own grandchildren; but
she was one who saw no fault in those whom she loved, and Mrs.
Ponsonby had been rendered a little anxious by a certain tone of
dissatisfaction in Lord Ormersfield's curt mention of his son, and
above all by his cold manner of announcing that this was the day when
he would return from Oxford for the Easter vacation.

Could it be that the son was unworthy, or had the father's feelings
been too much chilled ever to warm again, and all home affections
lost in the strife of politics? These had ever since engaged him,
whether in or out of office, leaving little time for society or for
any domestic pursuit.

Her reflections were interrupted by a call of 'Mamma!' and her
daughter came running up the steps. Mary Ponsonby had too wide a
face for beauty, and not slightness enough for symmetry, but nothing
could be more pleasing and trustworthy than the open countenance, the
steady, clear, greenish-brown eyes, the kind, sensible mouth, the
firm chin, broad though rather short forehead, and healthy though not
highly-coloured cheek; and the voice--full, soft, and cheerful--well