ishly, 'we must talk to Dr. Pratt about it.
But how is Lesbia to settle well if I bury her in that poky little
village? Perhaps I ought not to say so to you, Ursula; but poor dear
Charlie has been dead these two years, so there can be no harm in
speaking of such things now. But Sir Henry Sinclair is here a great deal,
and there is no mistaking his intentions, only Lesbia keeps him at such
a distance.'

I thought it very bad taste of Mrs. Fullerton always to talk to me about
Lesbia's suitors. Lesbia never mentioned such things herself. As far as I
could judge, she was very shy with them all. I could not believe that the
placid young baronet had any chance with her. She might possibly marry,
but poor Charlie's successor would hardly be a thick-set, clumsy young
man, with few original ideas of his own. Colonel Ferguson would have been
far better; but he evidently preferred Sara.

I was spared any reply, for Lesbia entered the room at that moment. She
looked more delicately fair than usual, perhaps because of the contrast
with her heavy furs. Her hair shone like gold under her little velvet
bonnet, but, though she was so warmly dressed, she shivered and crept as
close as possible to the fire.

Mrs. Fullerton had some notes to write, so she went into the dining-room
to write them and very good-naturedly left us by ourselves.

Lesbia looked at me rather wistfully.

'I have missed you twice, Ursula. I am so sorry; and now you go the day
after to-morrow. I wish I could do something for you. Is there nothing
you could leave in my charge?'

'Only Jill,' I said, half laughing. 'If you would take a little more
notice of her after I have gone, I should be so thankful to you.'

I thought Lesbia seemed somewhat amused at the request.

'Poor old Jill! I will do my best; but she never will talk to me. I think
I should like her better than Sara if she would only open her lips to me.
Well, Ursula, what have you and mother been talking about?'

'About Rutherford Lodge,' I returned quickly. 'Do you really want to go
back there?'

'Did mother talk about that?' looking excessively pleased. 'Oh yes, I
am longing to go back. I don't want to frighten you, Ursie, dear,--and,
indeed, there is no need,--but this life is half killing me. I am too
close to Hyde Park Gate; one never gets a chance of forgetting old
troubles; and then mother is always saying gaiety is good for me, and she
will accept every invitation that comes; and I get so