Such an individual was receiving an audience at the moment of Miss Miller’s arrival, and shuffled awkwardly and hurriedly out of the room by one door as she entered it by another.

“All right, William,” calls the M.F.H. after his departing satellite.  “Look in again to-night.  I shall have her fired, I think, and throw her up till December.  Hallo!  Pussy, how are you?”

All the four dogs rose from the hearthrug and wagged their tails solemnly in respectful greeting to her.  Beatrice had a pat and a word for each, and a kiss for her uncle, before she sat down on the chair he pulled forward for her.

“What brings you, Pussy?  What are you riding?”

“Kitty; they have taken her round to the stable.  I thought I’d have lunch with you, uncle Tom.”

“Very well; you won’t get anything but a mutton-chop.”

“I don’t ask for anything better.”

Beatrice felt that her heart was beating.  She had taken a desperate resolution during her six miles’ solitary ride; she had determined to take her uncle into her confidence.  He had always been indulgent and kind to her; perhaps he would not view her sin in so heinous a light as her mother would; and who knows? perhaps he would help her.

“Uncle Tom, I’m in dreadful trouble, and I want to tell you about it,” she began, trembling.

“I’m very sorry, Pussy; what is it?”

“I did a shocking, dreadful thing when I was in London.  I went to a young man’s rooms, and got shut up in his bedroom.”

“The deuce you did!” says Tom Esterworth, opening his eyes.

“Yes,” continues Beatrice, desperately, and crimson with shame and confusion; “and the worse of it is, that I left my sunshade in the sitting-room; and papa came in, and, of course, he did not know it was mine, and—­and—­he thinks—­he thinks——­”

“That’s the best joke I ever heard in my life!” cries Mr. Esterworth, laying his head back in the chair and laughing aloud.

“Uncle Tom!” Beatrice could hardly believe her ears.

“Good lord, what a situation for a comedy!” cries her uncle, between the outbursts of his mirth.  “Upon my word, Pussy, you are a good plucked one; there isn’t much Miller blood in your veins.  You are an Esterworth all over.”

“But, uncle, indeed, it’s no laughing matter.”

“Well, I don’t see much to cry at if your father did not find you out; the young man is never likely to talk.”

“Oh, but uncle Tom; papa and mamma think so badly of him, and I can’t tell them that I was there; and they will never let me marry him.”

“Oh! so you are in love, Pussy?”

“Yes, uncle.”

Tom Esterworth smote his hand against his corduroy thigh.

“What a mistake!” he exclaimed; “a girl who can go across country as you do—­what on earth do you want to be married for?  Is it Mr. Pryme, Pussy?”

Beatrice nodded.

“And he can’t go a yard,” said her uncle, sorrowfully and reproachfully.