lt to decide. "Is any one coming
here?"

"Even here. This letter"--regarding, with a stricken conscience, the
elegant scrawl in his hand--"is from Tedcastle George Luttrell (he is
evidently proud of his name), declaring himself not only ready but
fatally willing to accept my invitation to spend a month with me."

"A month!" says Molly, amazed. "And you never said a word about it,
John."

"A month!" says Letitia, dismayed. "What on earth, John, is any one to
do with any one for a month down here?"

"I wish I knew," replies Mr. Massereene, getting more and more stricken
as he notices his wife's dejection, and gazing at Molly as though for
inspiration. "What evil genius possessed me that I didn't say a
fortnight? But, to tell you the honest truth, Letty, it never occurred
to me that he might come."

"Then why did you ask him?" says Letitia, as sharply as is possible for
her. "When writing, you might have anticipated so much: people generally
do."

"Do they?" says Mr. Massereene, with an irrepressible glance at Molly.
"Then you must only put me down as an exception to the general rule. I
thought it only civil to ask him, but I certainly never believed he
would be rash enough to go in for voluntary exile. I should have
remembered how unthinking he always was."

"But who is he?" asks Molly, impatiently, full of keen and pleasurable
excitement. "I die of vulgar curiosity. What is he like? Is he young,
handsome? Oh, John, _do_ say he is young and good-looking."

"He was at school with me."

"Oh!" groans Molly.

"Does that groan proceed from a conviction that I am in the last stage
of decay?" demands Mr. Massereene. "Anything so rude as you, Molly, has
not as yet been rivaled. However, I am at a disadvantage: so I forgive,
and will proceed. Though at school with me, he is at least nine years my
junior, and can't be more than twenty-seven."

"Ah!" says Molly. To an Irish girl alone is given the power to express
these two exclamations with proper effect.

"He is a hussar, of a good family, sufficiently good looks, and, I
think, no fortune," says Mr. Massereene, as though reading from a
doubtful guide-book.

"How delightful!" says Molly.

"How terrific!" sighs Letitia. "Fancy a hussar finding amusement in
lambs, and cows, and fat pigs, and green fields!"

"'Green fields and pastures new,'" quotes Mr. Massereene. "He will have
them in abundance. He ought to be happy, as they say there is a charm in
variety."