recollection of her as the Miss Holabird of that early-morning business call, whose name she had just glanced at and dropped into an Indian china scrap-jar before she went down-stairs—­had asked him the same questions, and pronounced that she was “an exceedingly graceful little person, certainly,”—­after all this, Archie had made up his—­mind, shall I say? at least his inclination, and his moustache—­to pursue the acquaintance, and be as irresistible as he could.

But Rosamond had learned—­things do so play into our lives in a benign order—­just before that Christmas time and those charades, in one of which Archie Mucklegrand had sung to her, so expressively, the “Birks of Aberfeldy,”—­that Spreadsplendid Park was not, at least his corner of it,—­a “piece of her world;” and she did not believe that Aberfeldy would be, either, though Archie’s voice was beautiful, and—­

          “Bonnie lassie, will ye go?”

sounded very enticing—­in a charade.

So she was quite calm when the Marchbanks party came upon the ground, and Archie Mucklegrand, with white trousers and a lavender tie, and the trim, waxed moustache, looking very handsome in spite of his dapperness, found her out in the first two minutes, and attached himself to her forthwith in a most undetachable and determined manner, which was his way of being irresistible.

They were in the midst of their tea and coffee when the West Hill party came.  Miss Arabel was busy at the coffee-table between the two oaks, pouring out with all her might, and creaming the fragrant cups with a rich lavishness that seemed to speak of milky mothers without number or limit of supply; and Rosamond, as the most natural and hospitable thing to do, conducted the young gentleman as soon as she could to that lady, and commended him to her good offices.

These were not to be resisted; and as soon as he was occupied, Rosamond turned to attend to others coming up; and the groups shifting, she found herself presently a little way off, and meanwhile Mrs. Marchbanks and her son had reached the table and joined Archie.

“I say, Arthur!  O, Mrs. Marchbanks!  You never got such coffee as this, I do believe!  The open air has done something to it, or else the cream comes from some supernal cows!  Miss Holabird!”

Rosamond turned round.

“I don’t see,—­Mrs. Marchbanks ought to have some of this coffee, but where is your good woman gone?” For Miss Arabel had stepped round behind the oak-tree for a moment, to see about some replenishing.

In her prim, plain dress, utterly innocent of style or bias, and her zealous ministry, good Miss Arabel might easily be taken for some comfortable, superior old servant; but partly from a sudden sense of fun,—­Mrs. Marchbanks standing there in all her elegant dignity,—­and partly from a jealous chivalry of friendship, Rosamond would not let it pass so.

“Good woman?  Hush! she is one of our hostesses, the owner of the ground, and a dear friend of mine.  Here she is.  Miss Waite, let me introduce Mr. Archibald Mucklegrand.  Mrs. Marchbanks will like some coffee, please.”