ed violently; she recovered herself almost instantly, however.

"How quietly you move, Elizabeth," she said.

"Not more quietly than you sit, Beatrice. I have been wondering when
anybody was going to say anything, or if you were both asleep."

For her part Beatrice speculated how long her sister had been in the
room. Their conversation had been innocent enough, but it was not one
that she would wish Elizabeth to have overheard. And somehow Elizabeth
had a knack of overhearing things.

"You see, Miss Granger," said Geoffrey coming to the rescue, "both our
brains are still rather waterlogged, and that does not tend to a flow of
ideas."

"Quite so," said Elizabeth. "My dear Beatrice, why don't you tie up your
hair? You look like a crazy Jane. Not but what you have very nice hair,"
she added critically. "Do you admire good hair, Mr. Bingham."

"Of course I do," he answered gallantly, "but it is not common."

Only Beatrice bit her lip with vexation. "I had almost forgotten about
my hair," she said; "I must apologise for appearing in such a state. I
would have done it up after dinner only I was too stiff, and while I was
waiting for Betty, I went to sleep."

"I think there is a bit of ribbon in that drawer. I saw you put it there
yesterday," answered the precise Elizabeth. "Yes, here it is. If you
like, and Mr. Bingham will excuse it, I can tie it back for you," and
without waiting for an answer she passed behind Beatrice, and gathering
up the dense masses of her sister's locks, tied them round in such
fashion that they could not fall forward, though they still rolled down
her back.

Just then Mr. Granger came back from his visit to the farm. He was in
high good humour. The pig had even surpassed her former efforts, and
increased in a surprising manner, to the number of fifteen indeed.
Elizabeth thereon produced the two pounds odd shillings which she had
"corkscrewed" out of the recalcitrant dissenting farmer, and the sight
added to Mr. Granger's satisfaction.

"Would you believe it, Mr. Bingham," he said, "in this miserably paid
parish I have nearly a hundred pounds owing to me, a hundred pounds in
tithe. There is old Jones who lives out towards the Bell Rock, he owes
three years' tithe--thirty-four pounds eleven and fourpence. He can pay
and he won't pay--says he's a Baptist and is not going to pay parson's
dues--though for the matter of that he is nothing but an old beer tub of
a heathen."

"Why don't you proc