He was glad that his father showed this willingness to have Lizzy Grant to stay in his house, for he was fond of all the Grants; there was a kind of plain-spoken intimacy between him and them that he enjoyed.  The two elder had always been his very good friends, and during his wife’s lifetime had generally called him “John dear,” and looked to him and his wife to take them about whenever their brother was away.  Liz, who was rather a plain girl, he regarded more in the light of a niece than of a step-cousin.

A day or two after this, therefore, while sitting alone writing his letters (Grand being gone out for his constitutional), when he was told that Miss Grant wanted to speak to him, he desired that she might be shown in.

She was sitting at the back door in a little pony carriage, and giving the reins to her boy, she passed through it, to the wonder of all beholders.

Very few young ladies were shown in there.

“What is it?” exclaimed John, for Liz looked almost sulky.

“Oh John,” she answered, with a sort of whimsical pathos, “isn’t it sad, so few delightful things as there are, that two of them should come together, so that I can’t have both!”

“What are the delightful things—­offers?”

“Don’t be so tiresome.  No, of course not.  You know very well that nothing of that kind ever happens to me.”

“Indeed, if that is the case, it can only be because your frocks are almost always crumpled, and—­what’s that long bit of blue ribbon that I see?”

“It’s all right—­that’s how it’s meant to go.  I can’t think why you fancy that I’m not tidy.  St. George is always saying so too.”

“That’s very hard.  Well, child?”

“I thought perhaps you knew that Grand had invited me to stay six weeks at his house—­Laura Melcombe to be there also, and we two to do just as we liked.  The whole of August, John, and part of September, and that’s the very time when I can’t come, because we are going to be at the seaside.  Dorothea is to join us, you know, and if I do not see her then I never shall, for they are to sail at Christmas.”

“There is a world of misery to be got out of conflicting pleasures,” said John philosophically.  “You can’t come, that’s evident; and I had just given orders that the new canoe should be painted and the old one caulked.  Two quiet ponies for you to drive (you are a very tolerable whip, I know).  As to the grapes, a house is being kept back on purpose to be ripe just at that time; and the croquet balls are all sent to be painted.  Melancholy facts! but such is life.”

“No but, John——­”

“I’m extremely busy to-day.”

“Not so busy that you have not time to laugh at me.  This would have been almost the greatest pleasure I ever had.”

“And I’ve been reminding my father,” proceeded John, “that when Emily came to stay with him she always sat at the head of the table.  She asked him if she might, and so should you have done, because, though Laura is a relation, he has known you all your life.”