e inkstand, run his fingers in desperation through his
hair, risen from his seat, gazed about in vain for his boots, and felt as
fruitlessly on the back of the door for a coat to replace the loose
alpaca article that hung on his shoulders.

'There. You've gone through all the motions,' said Cilly; 'that'll do;
now, come out and receive them.'

Accordingly, he issued from the door, shy and slouching; rusty where he
wore cloth, shiny where he wore alpaca, wild as to his hair, gay as to
his feet, but, withal, the scholarly gentleman complete, and not a day
older or younger, apparently, than when Honor had last seen him, nine
years since, in bondage then to the child playing at coquetry, as now to
the coquette playing at childhood. It was curious, Honor thought, to see
how, though so much more uncouth and negligent than Robert, the
indefinable signs of good blood made themselves visible, while they were
wanting in one as truly the Christian gentleman in spirit and in
education.

Mr. Prendergast bowed to Miss Charlecote, and shook hands with his guest,
welcoming him kindly; but the two shy men grew more bashful by contact,
and Honor found herself, Owen, and Lucilla sustaining the chief of the
conversation, the curate apparently looking to the young lady to protect
him and do the honours, as she did by making him pull down a cluster of
his roses for her companions, and conducting them to eat his
strawberries, which she treated as her own, flitting, butterfly like,
over the beds, selecting the largest and ruddiest specimens, while her
slave plodded diligently to fill cabbage leaves, and present them to the
party in due gradation.

Owen stood by amused, and silencing the scruples of his companions.

'He is in Elysium,' he said; 'he had rather be plagued by Cilly than
receive a mitre! Don't hinder him, Honey; it is his pride to treat us as
if we were at home and he our guest.'

'Wrapworth has not been seen without Edna Murrell,' said Lucilla,
flinging the stem of her last strawberry at her brother, 'and Miss
Charlecote is a woman of schools. What, aren't we to go, Mr.
Prendergast?'

'I beg your pardon. I did not know.'

'Well; what is it?'

'I do sometimes wish Miss Murrell were not such an attraction.'

'You did not think that of yourself.'

'Well, I don't know; Miss Murrell is a very nice young woman,' he
hesitated, as Cilly seemed about to thrust him through with her reed;
'but couldn't you, Cilla, now, giv