“I told her I was sure you would not want her to-day.”

“Thank you.  My brother is hardly up to afternoon visitors yet, and we have not been able to arrange his refuge.”

“You have transformed this room.”

“Or Anna has.”

On which Miss Mohun begged for Miss Vanderkist to meet her nieces by and by at tea.  Gillian would call for her at four o’clock, and show her the way that it was hoped might soon be quite natural to her.

“Gillian’s ‘Aunt Jane,’” said Anna, when the visitor had tripped out.  “I never quite understood her way of talking of her.  I think she worried her.”

“Your pronouns are confused, Annie.  Which worried which?  Or was it mutual?”

“On the whole,” laughed Anna back, “I prefer an aunt to be waited on to one who pokes me up.”

“Aunt Log to Aunt Stork?  To be poked will be wholesome.”

In due time there was a ring at the front door; Gillian Merrifield was indulged with a kiss and smile from the heroine of her worship, and Anna found herself in the midst of a garland of bright girls.  She was a contrast to them, with her fair Underwood complexion, her short plump Vanderkist figure, and the mourning she still wore for the fatherly Uncle Grinstead; while the Merrifield party were all in different shades of the brunette, and wore bright spring raiment.

They had only just come down the steps when they were greeted by a young clergyman, who said he was on his way to inquire for Mr. Underwood, and as he looked as if he expected a reply from Miss Vanderkist, she said her uncle was better, and would be glad to see Mr. Brownlow when he had rested after his journey.

“I hope he will not bother him,” she added; “I know who he is now.  He was at Whittingtonia for a little while, but broke down.  There’s no remembering all the curates there.  My aunt likes his mother.  Does he belong to this St. Andrew’s Church?”

“No, to the old one.  You begin to see the tower.”

“Is that where you go?”

“To the old one in the morning, but we have a dear little old chapel at Clipstone, where Mr. Brownlow comes for the afternoon.  It is all a good deal mixed up together.”

Then another voice—-

“Do you think Mr. Underwood would preach to us?  Mr. Brownlow says he never heard any one like him.”

Anna stood still.

“Nobody is to dare to mention preaching to Uncle Clement for the next six months, or they will deserve never to hear another sermon in their lives.”

“What an awful penalty!”

“For shame, Dolores!  Now,” as the short remainder of a steep street was surmounted, “here, as you may see, is the great hotel, and next beyond is Aunt Jane’s, Beechcroft.  On beyond, where you see that queer tower, is Cliff House, Mr. White’s, who married our Aunt Adeline, only they are in Italy; and then comes Carrara, Captain Henderson’s—-”