“Well, well,” said Harold, patting her curly head; “I’ll finish this time, but not again, Dora.  Next time, Aunt Lucy will be so good as to see to it.  After old Betty’s eyes grew bad we had to do our own needling.”

I confess it was a wonderful performance—­quite as neat as Colman could have made it; and I suspect that Harold did not refrain from producing needle and thread from his fat miscellaneous pocket-book, and repairing her many disasters before they reached the domestic eye; for there was a chronic feud between Dora and Colman, and the attempts of the latter to make the child more like a young lady were passionately repelled, though she would better endure those of a rough little under-housemaid, whose civilisation was, I suppose, not quite so far removed from her own.

On Sunday, she and Harold disappeared as soon as breakfast was over, and only Eustace remained, spruce beyond all imagination, and giving himself childlike credit for not being with them; but when at church I can’t say much for his behaviour.  He stared unblushingly, whispered remarks and inquiries, could not find the places in his book, and appeared incapable of kneeling.  Our little church at Arghouse was then a chapelry, with merely Sunday morning service by a curate from Mycening, and the congregation a village one, to the disgust of Eustace, who had expected to review his neighbours, and thought his get-up thrown away.

“No one at all to see,” he observed with discontent over our luncheon, Harold and Dora having returned from roaming over Kalydon Moor.

“I go to afternoon service at Mycening, Harold,” I said.  “Will not you come with me?”

“There will be somebody there?” asked Eustace; to which I replied in the affirmative, but with some protest against his view of the object, and inviting the others again, but Dora defiantly answered that Harold was going to swing her on the ash tree.

“You ought to appear at church, Harry,” said Eustace.  “It is expected of an English squire.  You see everybody, and everybody sees you.”

“Well, then, go,” said Harold.

“And won’t you?” I entreated.

“I’ve promised to swing Dora,” he answered, strolling out of the room, much to my concern; and though Eustace did accompany me, it was so evidently for the sake of staring that there was little comfort in that; and it was only by very severe looks that I could keep him from asking everyone’s name.  I hoped to make every one understand that he was not the squire, but no one came across us as we went out of church, and I had to reply to his torrent of inquiries all the way home.

It was a wet evening, and we all stayed in the house.  Harold brought in one of his political economy studies from the library, and I tried to wile Dora to look at the pictures in a curious big old Dutch Scripture history, the Sunday delight of our youth.