“Indeed!  As if Sydney were not continually drilling her unfortunate children!”

“If you call the Psalms and hymns nonsense, Duke-—”

“No! no!  But isn’t there a course of instruction going on, how to strew the flowers gracefully before the bride?”

“Well, I don’t want them thrown at her head, as the children did at the last wedding, when a great cowslip ball hit the bride in the eye.  So I told the mistress to show them how, and the other day we found them in two lines, singing—-

          “‘This is the way the flowers we strew!’”

“I suppose Cecil is keeping his residence?”

“No.  Did you not know that this little Church of ours is not licensed for weddings?  The parish Church is three miles off and a temple of the winds.  This is only a chapelry, there is a special licence, and Cecil is hunting with the Hamptons, and comes with them on Monday.”

“Special licence!  Happy Mrs. Coffinkey!” ejaculated Babie.

“Everybody comes then,” said Sydney; “not that it is a very large everybody after all, and we have not asked more neighbours than we can help, because it is to be a feast for all the chief tenants-—here in this hall-—then the poor people dine in the great barn, and the children drink tea later in the school.  Come, little Caroline, you’ve done tea, and I have my old baby-house to show you.  Come, Babie!  Oh! isn’t it delicious to have you?”

When Sydney had carried off Babie, and the two mothers stood over the fire in the bedroom, Mrs. Evelyn said—-

“So Lucas stays with his good old godfather.  I honour him more than I can show.”

“We did not like to leave the old people alone.  They were my kindest friends in my day of trouble.”

“You will not let me press him to run down for the one day, if he cannot leave them for more?  Would he, do you think?”

“I believe he would, if you did it,” said Caroline, slowly; “but I ought not let you do so, without knowing his full reason for staying away.”

They both coloured as if they had been their own daughters, and Mrs. Evelyn smiled as she said—-

“We have outgrown some of our folly about choice of profession.”

“But does that make it safer?  My poor boy has talked it over with me.  He says he is afraid of his own impulses, leading him to say what would not be an honourable requital for all your kindness to him.”

“He is very good.  I think he is right-—quite right,” said Mrs. Evelyn.  “I am afraid I must say so.  For anything to begin afresh between them might lead to suspense that my child’s constitution might not stand, and I am very grateful to him for sparing her.”

“Afresh?  Do you think there ever was anything?”

“Never anything avowed, but a good deal of sympathy.  Indeed, so far as I can guess, my foolish girl was first much offended and disquieted with Jock for not listening to her persuasions, and then equally so with herself for having made them, and now I confess I think shame and confusion are predominant with her when she hears of him.”