Twelve o’clock came very quickly—­too quickly for me, in fact; for I had not accomplished near so much as I had hoped to do.  It would require the most diligent application, through every moment of time that intervened until the dinner hour, for us to get through with what we were doing, so as to have the afternoon to ourselves for the intended excursion.

As the clock rung out the hour of noon, I exclaimed: 

“Is it possible!  I had no idea that it was so late.  How slowly I do seem to get along!”

Just at this moment the bell rung.

“Bless me!  I hope we are not to have visitors this morning,” said I, as I let my hands fall in my lap.  I thought hurriedly for a moment, and then remarked, in a decided way: 

“Of course we cannot see any one.  We are engaged.”

By this time I heard the footsteps of Mary on her way from the kitchen, and I very naturally passed quickly to the parlor door to intercept and give her my instructions.

“Say that I’m engaged,” was on my tongue.  But, somehow or other, I had not the courage to give these words utterance.  The visitor might be a person to whom such an excuse for not appearing would seem unkind, or be an offence.  In this uncertain state, my mind fell into confusion.  Mary was before me, and awaiting the direction she saw that I was about giving.

“Say that I’m not at home, if any one asks to see me,” came in a sudden impulse from my lips.

And then my cheeks flushed to think that I had instructed my servant to give utterance to a falsehood.

“Yes, mim,” answered the girl, glancing into my face with a knowing leer, that produced an instant sense of humiliation; and away she went to do my bidding.

I did not glance towards Agnes, as I returned to my seat and took up my work.  I had not the courage to do this.  That I had lowered myself in her estimation, I felt certain.  I heard the street door open, and bent, involuntarily, in a listening attitude.  The voice of a lady uttered my name.

“She’s not at home, mim,” came distinctly on my ears, causing the flush on my cheeks to become still deeper.

A murmur of voices followed.  Then I heard the closing of the vestibule door, and Mary returning to the back parlor where we were sitting.

“Who was it, Mary?” I enquired, as the girl entered.

“Mrs.—­Mrs.—­Now what was it?  Sure, and I’ve forgotten their names intirely.”

But, lack of memory did not long keep me in ignorance as to who were my visitors, for, as ill luck would have it, they had bethought themselves of some message they wished to leave, and, re-opening the vestibule door, left a-jar by Mary, followed her along the passage to the room they saw her enter.  As they pushed open the door of the parlor, Mary heard them, and, turning quickly, exclaimed, in consternation—­

“Och, murther!”

A moment she stood, confronting, in no very graceful attitude, a couple of ladies, and then escaped to the kitchen.