rebound, the determination to be cheerful, though the heavens fell, had been so amazing!  The child had begun to laugh before her tears were dry—­letting loose a flood of sharp, shrewd questions on her companion; wondering, with sparkling looks, how ‘George’ would take it; and quite refusing to provide that fine-drawn or shrinking sentiment, that ‘moral sense,’ in short, with which, as it seemed to the elder woman, half-hours of this quality in life should be decently accompanied.  Little heathen!  Miss Anna thought grimly of all the precautions she had taken to spare the young lady’s feelings—­of her own emotions—­her sense of a solemn and epoch-making experience.  She might have saved her pains!

But at this point the door upstairs opened, and the ‘little heathen’ descended presently to the parlour, bringing the telegram.  She came in shyly, and it might perhaps have been seen that she was conscious of her disgrace with Miss Anna.  But she said nothing; she merely held out the piece of pink paper; and Miss Anna, surprised out of her own ‘moral sense,’ fell upon it, hastily adjusting her spectacles to a large and characteristic nose.

She read it frowning.  A messenger!  What on earth did they want with such a person?  Just like John!—­putting the disagreeables on other people.  She said to herself that one saw where the child’s levity came from.

‘It’s nice of father, isn’t it?’ said Carrie, rather timidly, touching the telegram.

‘He’d better have come himself,’ said Miss Anna, sharply.

‘But he is coming!’ cried Carrie.  ’He’s only sending a letter—­or a present—­or something—­to smooth the way—­just as George does with me.  Well, now then’—­she bent down and brought her resolute little face close to Miss Anna’s—­’where’s he to sleep?’

Miss Anna jumped, pushed back her chair, and said, coldly, ’I’ll see to that.’

‘Because, if he’s going into my room,’ said Carrie, thoughtfully, ’something’ll have to be done to lengthen that bed.  The pillow slips down, and even I hung my feet out last night.  But, if you’ll let me, I could fix it up—­I could make that room real nice.’

Miss Anna told her to do what she liked.  ’And where’ll you sleep to-night, pray?’

‘Oh, I’ll go in to mother.’

‘There’s a second bed in my room,’ said Miss Anna, stiffly.

‘Ah! but that would crowd you up,’ said the girl, softly; and off she went.

Presently there was a commotion upstairs—­hammering, pulling, pushing.

Miss Anna wondered what on earth she was doing to the bed.

Then, Phoebe came down, white and fluttered enough to satisfy the most exacting canons.  Miss Anna tried not to show that she was dissatisfied with the terms of the telegram, and Phoebe did not complain.  But her despondency was very evident, and Miss Anna was extremely sorry for her.  In her restlessness she presently said that she would go out to the ghyll and sit by the water a little.  If anybody came, they were to shout for her.  She would only be a stone’s throw from the house.