or scorn; "old Slyme could
not work ill to anyone. He has lived with us for years; but lately,
within the last eight months, he has become--well, a little
uncomfortable; indeed, perhaps, unbearable is the word."

"How so?--what has he done?" asks Portia, unaccountably interested in
this shadow that has crossed her path.

"I think he is very fond of brandy," says Dulce, reluctantly, and in a
very grieved little tone. "Poor old Gregory!"

CHAPTER VI.

"Present mirth hath present laughter,
What's to come is still unsure."
--SHAKESPEARE.

"JULIA is coming to-day," says Dulce, looking at them all, with the
tea-pot poised in her hand. It is evident that this sudden announcement
has hitherto been forgotten. "I heard from her this morning," she says,
half apologetically, "but never thought of telling you until now. She
will be here in time for dinner, and she is bringing the children with
her."

"Only the children?" says Roger, the others are all singularly dumb.

"Yes. The _ayah_ has gone home. Of course she will bring a nurse of some
sort, but not Singa."

"For even small mercies we should be thankful," says Roger.

"Who is Julia?" asks Portia, idly.

"'Who is Julia? What is she
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she,
The heavens such grace----'"

"Oh, that will do," says Dicky Browne, turning impatiently to Roger, who
has just delivered himself of the above stanza.

"Don't be severe," says Dulce, reprovingly; "extravagant praise is
always false, and as to the swains, that is what she _wants_ them to do,
only they won't."

"Now, who is severe?" says Roger triumphantly.

"As yet, you have hardly described her," says Portia.

"Let me do it," entreats Mr. Browne, airily, "I feel in the very vein
for that sort of thing. She is quite a thing to dream of; and she is
much too preciously utter, and quite too awfully too-too!"

"That's obsolete now," says Dulce, "quite out of the market altogether.
Too-too has been superseded, you should tell Portia she is very-very!"

"Odious," says Roger, in a careful aside as though determined to think
Miss Blount's speech unfinished.

"She is like Barbauld's _Spring_," put in Sir Mark, lazily, coming up to
have his cup refilled. "She is the 'sweet daughter of a rough and stormy
sire.' Do any of you remember old Charley Blount?"

Plainly, n