“To-day!” exclaimed Mrs. Grahame; “the woman will die!”

“Not she!” said Hildegarde.  “I was nearly suffocated, and protested, with such breath as I could find; but she said, ’Oh, Miss Grahame, my dear! you don’t know anything about trouble or sickness, and no need to before your time.  A breath of air, my dear, is like the bellers to my neurology—­the bellers itself!  Ah!  I ain’t closed my eyes, not to speak of, since you was here last.’

“I tried to convince her that good air was better than bad, since she must breathe some kind of air; but she only shook her head and groaned, and told me about a woman who got into her oven and shut the door, and stayed there till she was baked ’a beautiful light brown,’ as Mrs. Lincoln says. ’’T was a brick oven, dear, such as you don’t see ’em nowadays; and she was cured of her neurology, slick and slap; but I don’t never expect no such help of mine, now Mr. Aytoun’s dead and gone.  Not but what your blessed ma is a mother to me, and so I always tell the neighbours.’

“Do you want any more, missis?  I can go on indefinitely, if you like.  I stayed as long as I dared, and managed to hold the door open quite a bit, so that a little air really did get in; and I gave her the liniment, and rubbed her poor old back, and then gave her a spoonful of jelly, and ran.  That is the first part of my tale.  Then, I was coming home through the Ladies’ Garden, and I found my Hugh playing Narcissus over a pool, and wondering whether freckles were dirt on his soul that came out in spots—­the lamb!  And I had to stay and talk with him a bit, and he was so dear!  And then I walked along, and just as I came to the gap in the hedge, Mrs. Grahame, my dear madam, I heard the sound of a lawn-mower on the other side, and a man’s voice whistling.  This was amazing, and I am human, though I don’t know whether you ever noticed it.  I looked, I did; and so would others, if they had been there.  A wagon stood at the back door, all piled with trunks and bags and baskets; I liked the look of the baskets, I can’t tell exactly why.  And at that very moment a carriage drove up, with two delightful brown horses, and a brown man who looked delightful, too, driving.  I know it must be Mr. Merryweather, mammy, and I am sure we shall like him.  Tall and straight and square, with clear blue eyes and broad shoulders; and handled his horses well, and—­ what are you laughing at, Mrs. Grahame, if I may be permitted to ask?”

“I was only thinking that this charming individual was, in all probability, the coachman,” said Mrs. Grahame, with mild malignity.

“Mamma!” cried Hildegarde, indignantly.  “As if I didn’t know a coachman when I saw him!  Besides, the Colonel—­but wait!  Well, and then there was Mrs. Merryweather—­stout and cheerful-looking, and I should think very absent-minded.  Well, but, mother,” seeing Mrs. Grahame about to protest, “she was dressed for driving, not to say travelling, and she—­she had a pen behind her ear.  She truly had!