About half an hour later Mrs. Evelyn said—-

“Sydney, my dear, Willis is come for the tickets.  Are they ready?”

“Oh, mother, I meant to have done them yesterday evening!”

“You had better take them to Duke’s room, it is the only quiet place.  He is not there, I wish he were.  Willis can wait while you fill them up,” said Mrs. Evelyn, not at all sorry to pin her daughter down for an hour’s quiet, and unaware that the room was occupied.

So Sydney, with a list of names and packet of cards, betook herself to her brother’s writing-table, never perceiving that there was anybody under the Algerine rug, till there was a movement, suddenly checked, and a voice said—-

“Can I help?”

“Oh! don’t move.  I’m so sorry, I hope—-”

“Oh, no!  I beg your pardon,” he said, with equal incoherency, and raising himself more deliberately.  “Your brother put me here to rest, and I fell asleep, and did not hear you come in.”

“Oh, don’t!  Pray, don’t!  I am so sorry I disturbed you.  I did not know any one was here—-”

“Pray, don’t go!  Can’t I help you?”

Sydney recollected that in the general disorganisation pen, ink, and table were not easy to secure, and replied—-

“It is the people in the village who are to dine here to-morrow.  They must have tickets, or we shall have all manner of strangers.  The stupid printer only sent the tickets yesterday, and the keeper is waiting for them.  It would save time if you would read out the names while I mark the cards; but, please, lie still, or I shall go.”  And she came and arranged the cushions, which his movements had displaced, till he pronounced himself quite comfortable.

Hardly a word passed but “Smith James, two; Sennet Widow, one; Hacklebury Nicholas, three;” with a “yes” after each, till they came to “Hollis Richard.”

“That’s the boy’s father,” then said Sydney.

“Have you heard anything of him?” asked John.

“Oh, yes! his mother dragged him up to beg pardon, and return thanks, but mamma thought you would rather be spared the infliction.”

“Besides that, they were not my due,” said John.

“I never thought of the boy.”

“If you did not, you saved him—­twice!”

“A Newfoundland-dog instinct.  But I am glad the little scamp is not the worse.  I suppose he is to appear to-morrow?”

“Oh, yes! and the vicar begs no notice may be taken of him.  He is really a very naughty little fellow, and if he is made a hero for getting himself and us so nearly drowned by birds’-nesting on a Sunday in the park, it will be perfectly demoralising!”

“You are as bad as your keeper!”

“I am only repeating the general voice,” said Sydney, with a gleam upon her face, half-droll, half-tender.  “Poor little man!  I got him alone this morning, while his mother was pouring forth to mine, and I think he has a little more notion where thanks are due.”