“No doubt he has,” said my father, pityingly; then, in a more merry tone, he added:  “But can you think of no other alternative, Laura, than disobliging Mrs. Eylton, if you object to this juvenile infliction for a whole long summer’s afternoon?”

My father was of a bolder, more determined character than my mother, and had, withal, a spice of fun in his composition; and the expression of his eyes now rendered her apprehensive of some sudden scheme that might create a feeling of justifiable anger in Mrs. Eylton.

“Dearest Arthur!” she exclaimed beseechingly, as she placed a soft hand on his shoulder, “Do not, I beseech of you, put in execution any outlandish plan respecting Mrs. Eylton!—­Do let Jane go as usual; for she is not one to understand a joke, I can assure you—­she will be offended by it.”

“And pray, madam,” asked my father, with assumed gravity, “what has led you to suppose that I intended making Mrs. Eylton the subject of a joke?  Away with you,” he continued, with a mischievous look at those pleading eyes, “Away with you, and let me do as I choose.”

Turning to the servant, he asked:  “Mrs. Eylton has, I believe, requested the loan of other articles besides our domestics—­has she ever sent to borrow any of the children?”

“Indeed, and she has not, sir,” replied the girl, with difficulty repressing a laugh.

“Well then,” said he, “we will now send her both the article she requested, and some articles which she did not request.  Tell Jane to be ready to go to Mrs. Eylton’s with the children.”

“Yes sir,” and the servant departed to execute her commission.

“Arthur!” remonstrated my mother.

“Not a word!” said my father gaily.  “Children,” he continued, “do you wish to go?  What says my madcap, Amy?”

Madcap Amy, for once in her life, said nothing—­being too much awed and astonished to reply.  To think that I should actually enter the house, and be face to face with the formidable Mrs. Eylton?  The idea was appalling; and for sometime I sat biting my nails in thoughful silence.  It was so sudden, it had always appeared to me that a great deal must be gone through with—­a great many different degrees of intimacy surmounted, before I should ever find myself within the house of Mrs. Eylton; but here was I, without the least warning, to be transformed from the bashful child, who made no sign of recognition save an awkward courtesy, into the regular visitor—­and for a whole afternoon!  No wonder I took so long to deliberate.  Though not particularly remarkable for bashfulness or timidity at home, and despite a character for violence in, “fighting my own battles,” to assert some infringed right, I absolutely trembled at the idea of encountering strangers; and this visit to Mrs. Eylton’s appeared, to my excited mind, like thrusting myself into the enemy’s quarters.