rnful shrug
of her pretty shoulders, turning her back on her brother, and resuming
the all-important subject of the expected visitor.

"Another railway accident, and twenty men killed," says Mr. Massereene,
in a few minutes, looking up from his _Times_, and adopting the
lugubrious tone one always assumes on such occasions, whether one cares
or not.

"Wasn't it fortunate we put up those curtains clean last week?" murmurs
Letitia, in a slow, self-congratulatory voice.

"More than fortunate," says Molly.

"_Twenty_ men killed, Letty!" repeats Mr. Massereene, solemnly.

"I don't believe there is a spare bath in the house," exclaims Letitia,
again sinking into the lowest depth of despair.

"You forget the old one in the nursery. It will do for the children very
well, and he can have the new one," says Molly.

"Twenty men _killed_, Molly!" reiterates Mr. Massereene, a faint gleam
of surprised disgust creeping into his eyes.

"So it will, dear. Molly, you are an immense comfort. What did you say,
John? Twenty men killed? _Dreadful!_ I wonder, Molly, if I might suggest
to him that I would not like him to smoke in bed? I hear a great many
young men have that habit; indeed, a brother of mine, years ago, at
home, nearly set the house on fire one night with a cigar."

"Let me do all the lecturing," says Molly, gayly; "there is nothing I
should like better."

"Talk of ministering angels, indeed!" mutters Mr. Massereene, rising,
and making for the door, paper and all. "I don't believe they would care
if England was swamped, so long as they had clean curtains for
Luttrell's bed."

CHAPTER II.

"A lovely lady, garmented in light
From her own beauty."

--Shelley.

The day that is to bring them Luttrell has dawned, deepened, burst into
perfect beauty, and now holds out its arms to the restful evening. A
glorious sunny evening as yet, full of its lingering youth, with scarce
a hint of the noon's decay. The little yellow sunbeams, richer perhaps
in tint than they were two hours agone, still play their games of
hide-and-seek and bo-peep among the roses that climb and spread
themselves in all their creamy, rosy, snowy loveliness over the long,
low house where live the Massereenes, and breathe forth scented kisses
to the wooing wind.

A straggling house is Brooklyn, larger, at the first glance, than it in
reality is, and distinctly comfortable, yet with its comfort, a thing
very far apart from