To make sure, they each began to scrimmage; the broken-spirited Christie exhibiting both alacrity and penetration in searching obscure corners.  In the dining-room, behind the dresser, three or four books were discovered:  an odd volume of Thackeray, another of Dickens, a memorandum-book or diary.  “This seems to be Latin,” said Jessie, fishing out a smaller book.  “I can’t read it.”

“It’s just as well you shouldn’t,” said Christie shortly, whose ideas of a general classical impropriety had been gathered from pages of Lempriere’s dictionary.  “Put it back directly.”

Jessie returned certain odes of one Horatius Flaccus to the corner, and uttered an exclamation.  “Oh, Christie! here are some letters tied up with a ribbon.”

They were two or three prettily written letters, exhaling a faint odor of refinement and of the pressed flowers that peeped from between the loose leaves.  “I see, ‘My darling Fairfax.’  It’s from some woman.”

“I don’t think much of her, whosoever she is,” said Christie, tossing the intact packet back into the corner.

“Nor I,” echoed Jessie.

Nevertheless, by some feminine inconsistency, evidently the circumstance did make them think more of him, for a minute later, when they had reentered their own room, Christie remarked, “The idea of petting a man by his family name!  Think of mamma ever having called papa ’darling Carr’!”

“Oh, but his family name isn’t Fairfax,” said Jessie hastily; “that’s his first name, his Christian name.  I forget what’s his other name, but nobody ever calls him by it.”

“Do you mean,” said Christie, with glistening eyes and awful deliberation—­“do you mean to say that we’re expected to fall in with this insufferable familiarity?  I suppose they’ll be calling us by our Christian names next.”

“Oh, but they do!” said Jessie, mischievously.

“What!”

“They call me Miss Jessie; and Kearney, the little one, asked me if Christie played.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that you did,” answered Jessie, with an affectation of cherubic simplicity.  “You do, dear; don’t you? . . .  There, don’t get angry, darling; I couldn’t flare up all of a sudden in the face of that poor little creature; he looked so absurd—­and so—­so honest.”

Christie turned away, relapsing into her old resigned manner, and assuming her household duties in a quiet, temporizing way that was, however, without hope or expectation.

Mr. Carr, who had dined with his friends under the excuse of not adding to the awkwardness of the first day’s housekeeping returned late at night with a mass of papers and drawings, into which he afterwards withdrew, but not until he had delivered himself of a mysterious package entrusted to him by the young men for his daughters.  It contained a contribution to their board in the shape of a silver spoon and battered silver mug, which Jessie chose to facetiously consider as an affecting reminiscence of the youthful Kearney’s christening days—­which it probably was.