osperity on the pretty youthful face of Blanche, her
rich delicate silk spreading far beyond the sofa where she sat among
the great ladies; and her tall yellow-haired husband leaning against
the wall behind her, in wondering contemplation of his Blanche taking
her place in her own county.

Farther back, among the more ordinary herd, Ethel perceived Mrs. Pugh,
bridling demurely, with Tom on guard over her on one side, and Henry
Ward looking sulky on the other, with his youngest sister in his
charge. The other was looking very happy upon Leonard's knee, close to
Averil and Mary, who were evidently highly satisfied to have coalesced.
Averil was looking strikingly pretty--the light fell favourably on her
profuse glossy hair, straight features, and brilliant colouring; her
dark eyes were full of animation, and her lips were apart with a smile
as she listened to Leonard's eager narration; and Ethel glanced towards
Harry to see whether he were admiring. No; Harry was bringing in a
hall arm-chair in the background, for a vary large, heavy,
vulgar-looking old man, who seemed too ponderous and infirm for a place
on the benches. Richard made one of a black mass of clergy, and Aubrey
and Gertrude had asserted their independence by perching themselves on
a window-seat, as far as possible from all relations, whence they
nodded a merry saucy greeting to Ethel, and she smiled back again,
thinking her tall boy in his gray tunic and black belt, and her plump
girl in white with green ribbons, were as goodly a pair as the room
contained.

But where was the Doctor?

Ethel had a shrewd suspicion where she should find him; and in the
nursery he was, playing at spillekens with his left hand.

It was not easy to persuade him that the music would be wasted on her,
and that he ought to go down that it might receive justice; but
Margaret settled the question. 'You may go, grandpapa. Aunt Ethel is
best to play at spillekens, for she has not got a left hand.'

'There's honour for me, who used to have two!' and therewith Ethel
turned him out in time for the overture.

Margaret respected her aunt sufficiently not to be extra wayward with
her, and between the spillekens, and a long story about Cousin Dickie
in New Zealand, all went well till bed-time. There was something in
the child's nervous temperament that made the first hours of the night
peculiarly painful to her, and the sounds of the distant festivity
added to her excitability. She