A strange rising of the throat in her wild despair, a meek courtesy, as she turned from him, his last words ringing in her ears:  “I shall call in further advice for him, Madame Vine.”

William was clinging round Mrs. Carlyle, in a coaxing attitude, when she re-entered the gray parlor.  “I know what I could eat, mamma, if you’d let me have it,” cried he, in answer to her remonstrance that he must eat something.

“What could you eat?”

“Some cheese.”

“Cheese!  Cheese with tea!” laughed Mrs. Carlyle.

“For the last week or two he has fancied strange things, the effect of a diseased appetite,” exclaimed Madame Vine; “but if I allow them to be brought in he barely tastes them.”

“I am sure, mamma, I could eat some cheese now,” said William.

“You may have it,” answered Mrs. Carlyle.

As she turned to leave the room, the impatient knock and ring of a visitor was heard.  Barbara wondered who could be arriving at that, their dinner hour.  Sailing majestically into the hall, her lips compressed, her aspect threatening, came Miss Carlyle.

Now it turned out that Miss Corny had been standing at her own window, grimly eyeing the ill doings of the street, from the fine housemaid opposite, who was enjoying a flirting interview with the baker, to the ragged urchins, pitch-polling in the gutter and the dust.  And there she caught sight of the string, justices and others, who came flowing out of the office of Mr. Carlyle.  So many of them were they that Miss Corny involuntarily thought of a conjuror flinging flowers out of a hat—­the faster they come, the more it seems there are to come.  “What on earth is up?” cried Miss Corny, pressing her nose flat against the pane, that she might see better.

They filed off, some one way, some another.  Miss Carlyle’s curiosity was keener than her appetite, for she stayed on the watch, although just informed that her dinner was served.  Presently Mr. Carlyle appeared and she knocked at the window with her knuckles.  He did not hear it; he had turned off at a quick pace toward home.  Miss Corny’s temper rose.

The clerks came out next, one after another; and the last was Mr. Dill.  He was less hurried than Mr. Carlyle had been, and heard Miss Corny’s signal.

“What in the name of wonder, did all that stream of people want at the office?” began she, when Mr. Dill had entered in obedience to it.

“That was the deputation, Miss Cornelia.”

“What deputation?”

“The deputation to Mr. Archibald.  They want him to become their new member.”

“Member of what?” cried she, not guessing at the actual meaning.

“Of parliament, Miss Corny; to replace Mr. Attley.  The gentlemen came to solicit him to be put in nomination.”

“Solicit a donkey!” irascibly uttered Miss Corny, for the tidings did not meet her approbation.  “Did Archibald turn them out again?”