dam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come
out--but you'll never guess!

MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try.

BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself!

MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him.

BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau's own gentleman?

MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin's servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George
Austin must be here.

BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they're never far apart. He came out
feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so;
and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree you couldn't tell his back
from his master's.

MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A
young woman in your position must beware of levity.

BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at
the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking--she that
trained up everybody--and see what's come of it: Barbara Ridley I was,
and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don't do with fashionable ways--I can't
do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all
back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss
Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking
care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!

MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it,
Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She
falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale.
Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity, to
the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail
come?

BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean
out of my head. (_With letters._) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for
me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected,
does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.

MISS FOSTER. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it.
I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should
neglect her correspondence. (_Opening a letter._) Here's from that dear
ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.

BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat?

MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth,
child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.

BARBARA. La, madam, he can't help that.

MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great