and wreathed smiles" Miss Euphemia seated herself.
"I have just popped in," she began, and the very phrase had something in
it so light and flippant that her listeners started--"I have just popped
in for a minute to tell you some news. You have always been particular,
my dears, that no one except your branch had a right to the name of
Joliffe in this town. You can't deny, Maria," she said deprecatingly to
the churchwarden's wife, "that you have always held out that you were
the real Joliffes, and been a little sore with me and Anstice for
calling ourselves by what we thought we had a right to. Well, now there
will be one less outside your family to use the name of Joliffe, for
Anstice is going to give it up. Somebody has offered to find another
name for her."

The real Joliffes exchanged glances, and thought of the junior partner
in the drapery shop, who had affirmed with an oath that Anastasia
Joliffe did as much justice to his goods as any girl in Cullerne; and
thought again of the young farmer who was known for certain to let Miss
Euphemia have eggs at a penny cheaper than anyone else.

"Yes, Anstice is going to change her name, so that will be one grievance
the less. And another thing that will make matters straighter between
us, Maria: I can promise the little bit of silver shall never go out of
the family. You know what I mean--the teapot and the spoons marked with
`J' that you've always claimed for yours by right. I shall leave them
all back to you when my time comes; Anstice will never want such odds
and ends in the station to which she's called now."

The real Joliffes looked at each other again, and thought of young
Bulteel, who had helped Anastasia with the gas-standards when the
minster was decorated at Christmas. Or was it possible that her
affected voice and fine lady airs had after all caught Mr Westray, that
rather good-looking and interesting young man, on whom both the
churchwarden's daughters were not without hopes of making an impression?

Miss Joliffe enjoyed their curiosity; she was in a teasing and
mischievous mood, to which she had been a stranger for thirty years.

"Yes," she said, "I am one that like to own up to it when I make a
mistake, and I will state I _have_ made a mistake. I suppose I must
take to spectacles; it seems I cannot see things that are going on under
my very eyes--no, not even when they are pointed out to me. I've come
round to tell you, Maria, one and all, that