s master here, you must know, Flora--we all mind what she says."

"Oh, papa," pleaded Ethel, distressed, "you know it was because I
thought numbers might be oppressive."

"I never dispute," said Dr. May. "We bow to a beneficial despotism, and
never rebel, do we, Meta?"

Seeing that Ethel took the imputation to heart, Meta rejoined, "You are
making Mrs. Arnott think her the strong-minded woman of the family, who
winds up the clock and cuts the bread."

"No; that she makes you do, when the boys are away."

"Of course," said Ethel, "I can't be vituperated about hunches of bread.
I have quite enough to bear on the score of tea."

"Your tea is very good," said Richard.

"See how they propitiate her," maliciously observed the doctor.

"Not at all; it is Richard standing up for his pupil," said Ethel. "It
is all very well now, with people who know the capacities of mortal tea;
but the boys expect it to last from seven o'clock to ten, through an
unlimited number of cups, till I have announced that a teapot must
be carved on my tombstone, with an epitaph, 'Died of unreasonable
requirements.'"

Mrs. Arnott looked from one to the other, amused, observant, and
perceiving that they were all under that form of shyness which brings up
family wit to hide embarrassment or emotion.

"Is Harry one of these unreasonable boys?" she asked. "My dear Harry--I
presume Ethel has not sent him to bed. Is there any hope of my seeing
him?"

"Great hope," said Dr. May. "He has been in the Baltic fleet, a pretty
little summer trip, from which we expect him to return any day. My old
Lion! I am glad you had him for a little while, Flora.

"Dear fellow! his only fault was being homesick, and making me catch the
infection."

"I am glad you did not put off your coming," said Dr. May gravely.

"You are in time for the consecration," said Richard.

"Ah! Cocksmoor! When will it take place?"

"On St. Andrew's Day. It is St. Andrew's Church, and the bishop
fixed the day, otherwise it is a disappointment that Hector cannot be
present."

"Hector?"

"Hector Ernescliffe--poor Alan's brother, whom we don't well know from
ourselves."

"And you are curate, Ritchie?" said his aunt--"if I may still call you
so. You are not a bit altered from the mouse you used to be."

"Church mouse to Cocksmoor," said Dr. May, "nearly as poor. We are to
invest his patrimony in a parsonage as soon as our architect in ordinary
can find time for it. Spencer--you