“Oh, must I?  I don’t want.  Oh, if I could go home!  They were so angry before.  And I only said ‘if,’ and never meant—-”

“That was the very thing, my dear,” said her aunt with a great throb of pain.  “You were quite right not to encourage my poor Bobus; but this is a very different case, and I am sure they would wish you to act according as you feel.”

Esther drew a great gasp; “You are sure they would not think me wrong?”

“Quite sure,” was the reply, in full security that her mother would be rapturous at the nearly certain prospect of a coronet.  “Indeed, my dear, no one can find any fault with you.  You need not be afraid.  He is good and worthy, and they will be glad if you wish it.”

Wish was far too strong a word for poor frightened Esther; she could only cling and quiver.

“Shall I tell him to go and see them at Kencroft?”

“Oh, do, do, dear Aunt Carey!  Please tell him to go to papa, and not want to see me till—-”

“Very well, my dear child; that will be the best way.  Now I will send you up some tea, and then you shall put Lina to bed; and you and I will slip off quietly together, and go to St. Andrew’s in peace, quite in a different direction from the others, before they set out.”

Meantime Cecil had been found by Babie tumbling about the music and newspapers on the ottoman, and on her observation—-

“Too soon, sir!  And pray what mischief still have your idle hands found to do?”

“Don’t!” he burst out; “I’m on the verge of distraction already!  I can’t bear it!”

“Is there anything the matter?  You’re not in a scrape?  You don’t want Jock?” she said.

“No, no—-only I’ve done it.  Babie, I shall go mad, if I don’t get an answer soon.”

Babie was much too sharp not to see what he meant.  She knew in a kind of intuitive, undeveloped way how things stood with Bobus, and this gave a certain seriousness to her manner of saying—-

“Essie?”

“Of course, the darling!  If your mother would only come and tell me,-—but she was frightened, and won’t say anything.  If she won’t, I’m the most miserable fellow in the world.”

“How stupid you must have been!” said Babie.  “That comes of you, neither of you, ever reading.  You couldn’t have done it right, Cecil.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked, in such piteous, earnest tones that he touched her heart.

“Dear Cecil,” she said, “it will be all right.  I know Essie likes you better than any one else.”

She had almost added “though she is an ungrateful little puss for doing so,” but before the words had time to come out of her mouth, Cecil had flown at her in a transport, thrown his arms round her and kissed her, just as her mother opened the door, and uttered an odd incoherent cry of amazement.

“Oh, Mother Carey,” cried Cecil, colouring all over, “I didn’t know what I was doing!  She gave me hope!”