“I rather want to see how that boy is getting on,” continued Augustus.

“By-the-bye,” said the son, “I heard to my surprise the other day from Swan, whose son, it seems, was doing some work at Melcombe this spring (making a greenhouse, I think), that Mrs. Melcombe wintered at Mentone, partly on her boy’s account, for he had a feverish or aguish illness at Venice, and she was advised not to bring him to England.”

“I never heard of it,” said Grand, with anxiety.

“Nor I, my dear father; but I meant to have told you before; for I see you take an interest in the child.”

“What imprudence!” continued Grand; “those people really have no sense.  I begged them particularly not to go to Venice in the autumn.”

“Yes,” said John, “it was foolish; but Swan went on to say that he heard the boy was all right again.”

“I hope so,” replied Grand, almost fervently; “and his mother wants to consult us now about his going to school.”

John could not forbear to smile when his father said “us.”

“So you have written to say you shall be glad to see them?” he inquired.

“Yes; it is very little I ever see of my relations.”

John thought that perhaps his father’s mind was turning with affection towards his family, from whom he did not now doubt that he had been estranged owing to some cause which had terminated with the old mother’s death.  So he said cordially—­

“Would you like, when Mrs. Melcombe goes home, to invite Laura to remain with you for a few weeks?  I have no doubt, if you would, that Lizzy Grant would be charmed to come at the same time, and taste the sweetness of freedom.  The two girls could have the carriage, you know, and the canoes, and the riding-horses.  They might enjoy themselves very much, and give croquet parties and picnics to their hearts’ content.  I would get old Christie to come to you whenever a chaperone was wanted.  She is a most valuable possession, my dear father, but I would lend her.”

“You are very kind, my dear,” answered the father, who often addressed his son in this fashion when they were alone.  “I think it would be a pleasure to me to have the girls.  You can’t think, John, how cheerful the house used to be before your sisters were married; you can hardly remember it, you were so young.”

“Why did I never think of proposing such a visit to him before?” thought John, almost with compunction.

“I seem to know them pretty well,” he answered, “from their letters and from hearing you talk of them; but what I really remember, I believe, is four grand young ladies who used to carry me a pick-a-back, and give me sugared almonds.”

Of the four Miss Mortimers, the eldest had married a clergyman, and died soon after; the second and third had married “shepherd kings,” and were living with the said kings in Australia; and the fourth was in India with her husband and a grown-up family.  Their father had given to each of them an ample fortune, and parted with her before his only son was five years old, for John Mortimer was fifteen years younger than his youngest sister, and had been, though the daughters were much beloved, a greater joy and comfort to his father than all four of them put together.