"Yes, _isn't_ that a comfort?" says her cousin, with a devout sigh of
deepest thankfulness.

"A comfort!"

"Yes. I am not strong enough to go about much, and Auntie Maud has that
sort of thing on the brain. She is like the brook--she goes on for
ever, nothing stops her. Ah! See now, for example, who are those coming
across the lawn? Is one your brother?"

"No! It is only Dicky Browne and--"

"Your Roger?"

"Oh! yes; my Roger," repeats Dulce, with a distasteful shrug.

Then she leans over the balcony, and says:

"Roger, come up here directly; for once in your life you are wanted by
somebody. And you are to come, too, Dicky, and please put on your Sunday
manners, both you boys, because I am going to introduce you to Portia!"

CHAPTER III.

"Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a
reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of
determining."--W. PITT.

THE boys, as Miss Blount--that is Dulce--irreverently terms them, are
coming slowly across the grass, trampling the patient daisies. The sun
has "dropped down" and the "day is dead," and twilight, coming up, is
covering all the land. A sort of subtle sadness lies on everything,
_except_ "the boys," they are evidently full of the enjoyment of some
joke, and are gay with smiles.

Mr. Browne is especially glad, which convinces his pretty cousin on the
balcony that he has been the perpetrator of the "good thing" just
recorded. At her voice, both he and his companion start, and Roger,
raising his eyes, meets hers.

He is a tall, slight young man, handsome, indolent, with dark eyes, and
a dark moustache, and a very expressive mouth.

Dicky is distinctly different, and perhaps more difficult of
description. If I say he is a little short, and a little stout, and a
little--a _very_ little--good looking, will you understand him? At least
he is beaming with _bonhommie_, and that goes a long way with most
people.

He seems now rather taken by Dulce's speech, and says:

"No! Has she really come?" in a loud voice, that is cheery and
comfortable to the last degree. He can't see Portia, as she is sitting
down, and is quite hidden from view by the trailing roses. "Is she 'all
your fancy painted her?' is she 'lovely and divine?'" goes on Mr.
Browne, gaily, as though seeking information.

"Beauties are always overrated," says Roger, sententiously, in an even
louder voice--indeed, at the very top of his strong young lungs--"jus