“Dare,” repeated Marten indignantly, “and why should I not dare—­I want my brother.”

“Do it then,” said Jane, “if you are not a coward, which I strongly suspect you are;” and when was a spirited boy of thirteen so urged on that had the prudence to know where to stop with propriety to himself.  Marten, choking with rage, did advance to the door pointed out, and put his head inside, and there, on beholding a group of young ladies of all ages, from eight to fourteen, and no little brother, and finding all eyes turned upon himself as an impertinent intruder, he drew his head back quickly, and was met with a loud laugh from Jane, which so annoyed him, that without stopping to think, he ran off to his own room as fast as he could.  The voice of Mary Roscoe however reached him as he ran along the gallery, uttering these words:  “I’ll take care of Reuben, Master Marten—­I’ll take care of Reuben, he is very happy.”  And so Marten allowed himself to be content, and as he knew dinner would shortly be ready, he lost no more time, but set to dress himself in his best as quickly as he could.  Mr. and Mrs. Jameson did not dine with the young people, but Mrs. Jameson came in and walked round the table, and spoke to most of the young ladies and gentlemen, and asked after their papas and mammas, and she said she hoped they would be good children and enjoy themselves very much, and in the evening she and Mr. Jameson would come in to see them at play.  She told Jane Roscoe she expected her and Mary to take care of the young ladies and see that they had everything they wanted, and she said much the same to her son and William Roscoe about the boys.

There was a very long dining table laid out, and, as might be expected, all the boys got together at the end where Edward sat, and all the girls got round Jane Roscoe, for it must be remembered that hostilities had begun in the morning between the boys and girls, and Jane was not the kind of girl to make peace, or desire to make peace and conduct herself as would be becoming a young lady.  Frank Farleigh, indeed, crossed the barrier, and once again demanded his cap from his sister, but he pleaded in vain, and I do not know how the matter would have been settled if good-natured Mary Roscoe had not proposed that it should be considered as a forfeit, and that the cap should be cried with the other forfeits in the evening games.  “And I promise you it shall be hardly won,” cried Jane, and Frank’s sister then whispered to her as if they were settling what Frank was to do for it, and then Jane laughed—­her teasing laugh—­and if Frank did give his sister a most cruel schoolboy pinch, I can’t but say she had only herself and her rude companion to thank for it.  “I don’t care,” he said, as he joined the boys, “I can wear that old cap of Edward’s, and when I go home they must give it back to me.”