fort to you--I
shall be happy--I mean I shall be very glad to come up again about the
same time to-morrow evening."

"_Will_ you?" (eagerly, with a great accession of exhilaration in my
voice). "Are you serious? I shall be so much obliged if you will, but--"

"It is _impossible_ that any one can say any thing," he interrupts,
hastily. "There _could_ be no harm in it!"

"_Harm!_" repeat I, laughing. "Well, _hardly_! I cannot fancy a more
innocent amusement."

Though my speech is in agreement with his own, the coincidence does not
seem to gratify him.

"What did you mean, then?" he says, sharply. "You said 'but'--"

"Did I?" answer I, again throwing back my head, and looking upward, as
if trying to trace my last preposition among the clouds;
"but--_but_--where could I have put a '_but_'?--oh, I know! _but_ you
will most likely forget! Do not!" I continue, bringing down my eyes
again, and speaking in a coaxing tone. "If you do, it will be play to
you, but _death_ to me; the thought of it will keep me up all the day!"

"Will it?" in a tone of elated eagerness. "You are not _gibing_, I
suppose? it does not sound like your gibing voice!"

"Not it!" reply I, gloomily. "My gibing voice is packed away at the
bottom of my imperial. I do not think it has been out since we left
Dresden. Well, good-night! What do you want to shake hands _again_ for?
We have done that _twice_ already. You are like the man who, the moment
he had finished reading prayers to his family, began them all over
again. _Mind_ you do not forget! and" (laughing) "if you cannot come
yourself, _send some one else! any one_ will do--I am not particular,
but I _must_ have _some one_ to speak to!"

Almost before my speech is finished, Frank is out of sight. With such
rapid suddenness has he disappeared round the house-corner. I stand for
a moment, marveling a little at his hurry. Five minutes ago he seemed
willing enough to dawdle on till midnight. Then I go in, and forget his
existence.

CHAPTER XXII.

Suppose that in all this world, during all its ages, there never was a
case of a person being _always_ in an ill-humor. I believe that even
Xantippe had her lucid intervals of amiability, during which she fondled
her Socrates. At all events, father has. On the day after my
disappointment, one such interval occurs. He relents, allows Algy and
Barbara to have the carriage, and sends them off to Tempest.

Either Mr. Musgrave becomes aware of this