eep.

She and Phillis did all the packing for the next day, and it was not
until Dulce sleepily warned them of the lateness of the hour that they
consented to separate; and then Nan sat by the parlor fire a long time
alone, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed meditation.

But the next morning, just as they had gone into the work-room,--not
to settle to any business,--that was impossible under the present
exciting circumstances,--but just to fold up and despatch a gown that
had been finished for Mrs. Squails, while Dulce put the
finishing-touches to Mrs. Cheyne's tweed dress, Nan announced in a
glad voice that their cousin and Dick were at the gate; "and I am so
thankful we packed last night," she continued, "for Dick will not let
me have a free moment until we start."

"You should keep him in better order," observed Phillis, tersely: "if
you give him his own way so much, you will not have a will of your own
when you are married: will she, mother?" Mrs. Challoner smiled a
little feebly in answer to this: she could not remember the time when
she had had a will of her own.

Nan went out shyly to meet them; but she could not understand her
reception at all. Dick's grasp of her hand was sufficiently eloquent,
but he said nothing; and Nan thought he was trying not to laugh, for
there was a gleam of fun in his eyes, though he endeavored to look
solemn. Sir Harry's face, too, wore an expression of portentous
gravity.

"Are you all in the work-room, Nan?" he asked, in a tone as though
they were assembled at a funeral.

"Yes; mother and all," answered Nan, brightly. "What is the matter
with you both? You look dreadfully solemn."

"Because we have a little business before us," returned Sir Harry,
wrinkling his brows and frowning at Dick. "Come, Mayne, if you are
ready."

"Wait a minute, Nan. I will speak to you afterwards," observed that
young gentleman, divesting himself of his gray overcoat; and Nan, very
much puzzled, preceded them into the room.

"How do you do, Aunt Catherine? Good-morning, girls," nodded Sir
Harry; and then he looked at Dick. And what were they both doing? Were
they mad? They must have taken leave of their senses; for Dick had
raised his foot gently,--very gently,--and Mrs. Squails's red merino
gown lay in the passage. At the same moment, Sir Harry's huge hand had
closed over the tweed, and, by a dexterous thrust, had flung it as far
as the kitchen. And now Dick was bundling out the sewing-machine