her is mingling her drink with tears, and making
little covert signs to Algy, at all rates to hold his tongue.

My mind is made up, never to be unmade again. I will marry Sir Roger. He
shall pay all Algy's debts, and forever dry mother's sad, wet eyes.

* * * * *

The weather of paradise is gone back to paradise. This day is very
earthly. There has been a sharp, cold shower, and there is still a
strong rain-wind, which has snapped a score of tulip-heads. Poor, brave
_Jour ne sols_! Prone they lie on the garden-beds, defiled, dispetalled.
Even the survivors are stained and dashed, and the sweet Nancies look
pinched and small. If you were to go down on your knees to them, they
could not give you any scent. I am walking up and down the room, in a
state of the utmost agitation. My heart is beating so as to make me feel
quite sick. My fingers are very hot, but hardly so hot as my face.

"For Heaven's sake do not make me laugh! do not!" cry I, nervously, "it
would be _too_ dreadful if I were to receive his overtures with a broad
grin, would not it? There! is it gone? Do I look quite grave?"

I take half a dozen hurried turns along the floor, and try to think of
all our most depressing family themes--father; Algy's college-bills; Tou
Tou's shrunk face and thin legs; nothing will do. When I stop before the
glass and consult it, that hysterical smile is there still.

"Do you remember the day, when we were children, that we all went to the
dentist?" says the Brat, chuckling, "and father gave Bobby a New
Testament because he had his eye-tooth out? Does to-day at all remind
you of it, Nancy?"

"I had far rather have _both_ my eye-teeth out, and several of my double
ones, too," reply I, sincerely.

A little pause.

"I must not keep him waiting any longer," cry I, desperately. "Tell me!"
(appealing piteously to them all), "do I look all right? do I look
pretty natural?"

"You do not look _middle-aged_ enough," says Bobby, bluntly.

"Put on your bonnet," suggests Algy. "You look twenty years older in
that, particularly when you cock it well over your nose, as you did last
Sunday."

"You are all very unkind!" say I, in a whimpering voice, walking toward
the door.

"And if he becomes too demonstrative," says the Brat, overtaking me with
a rush before I reach it, "say--

'Unhand me, graybeard loon!'"

Then I go. As I know perfectly well, that if I give myself time to
think, I shall st