precisely, Miss Murgatroyd rises, and they
procession up to bed--ah, no! I beg their pardons. The Miss Murgatroyds
never "go to bed." They all "retire to rest."

Jim Airth and his doings form a favourite topic of conversation. They
speak of him as "Mr. Airth," which sounds so funny. He is not the sort of
person one ever could call "Mister." To me, he has been "Jim Airth," ever
since I saw his name, in small neat writing, in the visitors' book. I had
to put mine just beneath it, and of course I wrote "Mrs. O'Mara"; then,
as an address seemed expected, added: "The Lodge, Shenstone." Just after
I had written this, Jim Airth came into the hall, and stood quite still
studying it. I saw him, from half-way up the stairs. At first I thought
he was marvelling at my shocking handwriting; but now I believe the name
"Shenstone" caught his eye. No doubt he knew it to be Michael's
family-seat.

Do you know, it was so strange, the other night, Miss Murgatroyd held
forth in the reception-room about Michael's death. She explained that he
was "the first to dash into the breach," and "fell with his face to the
foe." She also added that she used to know "poor dear Lady Ingleby,"
intimately. This was interesting, and seemed worthy of further inquiry.
It turned out that she is a distant cousin of a weird old person who used
to call every year on mamma, for a subscription to some society for
promoting thrift among the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands. Dear
mamma used annually to jump upon this courageous old party and flatten
her out; and listening to the process was, to us, a fearful joy; but
annually she returned to the charge. On one of these occasions, just
before my marriage, Miss Murgatroyd accompanied her. Hence her intimate
knowledge of "poor dear Lady Ingleby." Also she has a friend who, quite
recently, saw Lady Ingleby driving in the Park; "and, poor thing, she had
sadly gone off in looks." I felt inclined to prink in the golden mirror,
after the manner of Susie, and exclaim: "Oh, do not say that, Amelia!"

Isn't it queer the way in which such people as these worthy ladies, yearn
to be able to say they know us; for really, when all is said and done,
we are not very much worth knowing? I would rather know a cosmopolitan
cowboy, such as Jim Airth, than half the titled folk on my visiting-list.

But really, Jane, I must not mention him again, or you will think I am
infected with Susie's flutter. Not so, my dear! He has shown me