e a fresh nephew and niece
present themselves to their view. They come in quite gayly,--reassured,
no doubt, by Monica's tone: Terence, a tall slim lad of about sixteen,
and a little girl somewhat like Monica, but more restless in features,
and even a degree more pallid.

"My dear children, why didn't you come in before?" said Miss Priscilla,
aghast at the inhospitable thought that they had been shivering with
needless nervousness in the hall for the last five minutes.

"They said they wouldn't come in until I paved the way for them," says
Monica, with a slight shrug of her shoulders that is a trick of hers.
"They always put everything upon my shoulders: a little shabby of them
_I_ call it."

"I am afraid you must have pictured us as ogres," says Miss Priscilla,
which idea strikes the old ladies as such a delicious flight of fancy
that they laugh outright, and look at each other with intense enjoyment
of their little joke.

"Well, of course we couldn't tell what you would be like," says Monica,
gravely. "You might have been people likely to impress one with awe;
but, as _it is_----This is Terry," laying her hand upon her brother's
arm; "and this is Kit. She is really Katherine, you know, but no one
ever calls her by so long a name. She isn't worth it."

At this the three Beresfords laugh among themselves, as children will,
at time-worn fun, knowing no fatigue; after which Katherine and Terence
are embraced and made much of by their new-found relatives, and freely
commented upon.

But ever and anon the eyes of both old ladies wander thoughtfully,
admiringly, to where the lissome Monica stands, like a pale, pensive
lily.

* * * * *

"But how have you managed to be here so soon?" asks Miss Priscilla, when
the impromptu luncheon, improvised by the startled Timothy, has come to
an end. The children were all hungry, and have eaten a great deal, and
have talked more. Indeed, though Miss Priscilla has been dying to ask
this question for a long time, it has been impossible for her to do so,
as there has not been so much as a comma in the conversation for the
last hour.

The Beresfords are like so many clocks wound up, and bound to go for a
certain time whether they like it or not; and, apparently, they do like
it. Now they have run down a little, Terence being exhausted after his
last laughing attack, and Kit wrapped in contemplation of an
old-fashioned hair brooch that is fastening an