lia, "that the wearing of a
necklace will not interfere with my prayers. And I do not see that I
should be bound by Dorothea's opinions now we are going into society,
though of course she herself ought to be bound by them. But Dorothea
is not always consistent."

Thus Celia, mutely bending over her tapestry, until she heard her
sister calling her.

"Here, Kitty, come and look at my plan; I shall think I am a great
architect, if I have not got incompatible stairs and fireplaces."

As Celia bent over the paper, Dorothea put her cheek against her
sister's arm caressingly. Celia understood the action. Dorothea saw
that she had been in the wrong, and Celia pardoned her. Since they
could remember, there had been a mixture of criticism and awe in the
attitude of Celia's mind towards her elder sister. The younger had
always worn a yoke; but is there any yoked creature without its private
opinions?

CHAPTER II.

"'Dime; no ves aquel caballero que hacia nosotros viene
sobre un caballo rucio rodado que trae puesto en la cabeza
un yelmo de oro?' 'Lo que veo y columbro,' respondio Sancho,
'no es sino un hombre sobre un as no pardo como el mio, que
trae sobre la cabeza una cosa que relumbra.' 'Pues ese es el
yelmo de Mambrino,' dijo Don Quijote."--CERVANTES.

"'Seest thou not yon cavalier who cometh toward us on a
dapple-gray steed, and weareth a golden helmet?' 'What I
see,' answered Sancho, 'is nothing but a man on a gray ass
like my own, who carries something shiny on his head.' 'Just
so,' answered Don Quixote: 'and that resplendent object is
the helmet of Mambrino.'"

"Sir Humphry Davy?" said Mr. Brooke, over the soup, in his easy smiling
way, taking up Sir James Chettam's remark that he was studying Davy's
Agricultural Chemistry. "Well, now, Sir Humphry Davy; I dined with him
years ago at Cartwright's, and Wordsworth was there too--the poet
Wordsworth, you know. Now there was something singular. I was at
Cambridge when Wordsworth was there, and I never met him--and I dined
with him twenty years afterwards at Cartwright's. There's an oddity in
things, now. But Davy was there: he was a poet too. Or, as I may say,
Wordsworth was poet one, and Davy was poet two. That was true in every
sense, you know."

Dorothea felt a little more uneasy than usual. In the beginning of
dinner, the party being small and the room still, these motes from the
mass of a magist