asm about Mr. Hamilton's message.

But he was right; I was enjoying myself. Lesbia was still in town, and I
saw her every day. My acquaintance with Miss Gillespie grew to intimacy,
and I think we mutually enjoyed each other's society. Aunt Philippa
seemed to turn to me naturally for help and comfort, and her constant
'Ursula, my dear, will you do this for me?' gave me a real feeling of
pleasure; and then there was Jill to pet and praise at every odd moment.

One day we were all called upon to admire Sara's new signature, 'Sara
Ferguson,' written in bold, girlish characters. 'Donald is looking over
my shoulder as I write it, dear mamma,' Sara wrote, in a long postscript.
'Are husbands always so impertinent? Donald pretends that it is part of
his duty to see that I dot my _i_'s and cross my _t_'s: he will talk such
nonsense. There, he has gone off laughing, and I may end comfortably by
telling you that he spoils me dreadfully and is so good to me, and that
I am happier than I deserve to be, and your very loving child, Sara.'

'Poor darling! she always did make her own sunshine,' murmured Aunt
Philippa fondly.

Now, that afternoon who should call upon us but Mr. Tudor? Jill was out,
as usual, riding with two of her cousins and Uncle Brian; they had gone
off to Kew or Richmond for the afternoon; but Aunt Philippa, who had been
dozing in her easy-chair by the window, welcomed the young man very
kindly, and made him promise to stay to dinner.

Mr. Tudor tried not to look too much pleased as he accepted the
invitation. A sort of blush crossed his honest face as he turned to me:
he had two or three messages to deliver, he said. Mr. Cunliffe had given
him one, and Mrs. Barton, and Lady Betty. She, Lady Betty, wanted me to
know that Miss Darrell was going to Brighton for a week or ten days, and
that she hoped I should come home before then.

I heard, too, that Mr. Hamilton had gone to Folkestone, and that he had
tried to induce Uncle Max to go with him. 'But it is no use telling him
he wants a change,' finished Mr. Tudor, with a sigh; 'he is bent on
wearing himself out for other people.'

Mr. Tudor and I chatted on for the remainder of the afternoon. I had
taken him out on the balcony: there were an awning and some chairs, and
we could sit there in comparative privacy looking down on the passers-by.
Aunt Philippa was nodding again: we could hear her regular breathing
behind us: poor woman! she was worn out with bustle and g