gate, and the horses’ feet upon the gravel.  Then he grew very much provoked because his sister went first to her mamma’s room; and it was grandpapa who came to him full of a story of Henrietta’s good management of her horse when they suddenly met the hounds in a narrow lane.  In she came, at last, in her habit, her hair hanging loosely round her face, her cheeks and eyes lighted up by the exercise, and some early primroses in her hand, begging his pardon for having kept him waiting, but saying she thought he did not want her directly, as he had grandpapa.

Nevertheless he scolded her, ordered her specimens of the promise of spring out of the room on an accusation of their possessing a strong scent, made her make a complete revolution on his sofa, and then insisted on her going on with Nicolo de Lapi, which she was translating to him from the Italian.  Warm as the room felt to her in her habit, she sat down directly, without going to take it off; but he was not to be thus satisfied.  He found fault with her for hesitating in her translation, and desired her to read the Italian instead; then she read first so fast that he could not follow, and then so slowly that it was quite unbearable, and she must go on translating.  With the greatest patience and sweetest temper she obeyed; only when next he interrupted her to find fault, she stopped and said gently, “Dear Fred, I am afraid you are not feeling so well.”

“Nonsense!  What should make you think so?  You think I am cross, I suppose.  Well, never mind, I will go on for myself,” said he, snatching the book.

Henrietta turned away to hide her tears, for she was too wise to vindicate herself.

“Are you crying?  I am sure I said nothing to cry about; I wish you would not be so silly.”

“If you would only let me go on, dear Fred,” said she, thinking that occupying him would be better than arguing.  “It is so dark where you are, and I will try to get on better.  There is an easier piece coming.”

Fred agreed, and she went on without interruption for some little time, till at last he grew so excited by the story as to be very angry when the failing light obliged her to pause.  She tried to extract some light from the fire, but this was a worse offence than any; it was too bad of her, when she knew how he hated both the sound of poking, and that horrible red flickering light which always hurt his eyes.  This dislike, which had been one of the symptoms of the early part of his illness, so alarmed her that she had thoughts of going to call Aunt Geoffrey, and was heartily glad to see her enter the room.

“Well, how are you going on?” she said, cheerfully.  “Why, my dear, how hot you must be in that habit!”

“Rather,” said poor Henrietta, whose face, between the heat and her perplexity, was almost crimson.  “We have been reading ‘Nicolo,’ and I am very much afraid it is as bad as Alex’s visit, and has excited Fred again.”