“You may, if papa has no objection,” said Emily, suddenly aware of a certain set look about Miss Fairbairn’s lips, and a glance of reproof, almost of anguish, from her stern blue eye.

Miss Fairbairn had that morning tasted the sweetness of hope, and she now experienced a sharp pang of jealousy when she saw the children hanging about Emily with familiar friendliness, treading on her tucks, whispering confidences in her ears, and putting their flowers on the clean chintz of her ottomans.  These things Justina would have found intolerable if done to herself, unless in their father’s presence.  Even then she would have only welcomed them for the sake of diverting them from Emily.

She felt sure that at first all had been as she hoped, and as it ought to be; and she could not refrain from darting a glance of reproof at Emily.  She even felt as if it was wrong of John to be thus beguiled into turning away when he ought to have been cultivating his acquaintance with her mind and character.  It was still more wrong of Emily to be attracting his notice and drawing him away from his true place, his interest, and now almost his duty.

Emily, with instant docility, put the little Anastasia down and took up her knitting, while Miss Fairbairn, suddenly feigning a great interest in horticulture, asked after John’s old gardener, who she heard had just taken another prize.

“The old man is very well,” said John, “and if you and Mrs. Walker would come over some morning, I am sure he would be proud to show you the flowers.”

Miss Fairbairn instantly accepted the proposal.

“I always took an interest in that old man,” she observed; “he is so original.”

“Yes, he is,” said John.

“But at what time of day are you generally at home,” she continued, not observing, or perhaps not intending to observe that the flowers could have been shown during their owner’s absence.  “At luncheon time, or at what time?”

John, thus appealed to, paused an instant; he had never thought of coming home to entertain the ladies, but he could not be inhospitable, and he concluded that the mistake was real.  “At luncheon time,” he presently said, and named a day when he would be at home, being very careful to address the invitation to Mrs. Walker.

He then retired with his children, who were now in very good spirits; they gave their hands to Justina, who would have liked to kiss them, but the sprites skipped away in their father’s wake, and while he walked home, lost in thought on grave and serious things, they broke in every now and then with their childish speculations on life and manners.

“Swanny must put on his Sunday coat when they come, and his orange handkerchief that Janie hemmed for him because Mrs. Swan’s fingers are all crumpled up,” said the little girl.

“Father, what’s a Methodist?” asked Hugh.

Before John could answer little Bertram informed his brother, “It is a thing about not going to church.  It has nothing to do with her fingers being crumpled up, that’s rheumatism.”