LITMIR.BIZ

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is made out of an old Geneva gown of his?' suggests Talbot wildly.

      Again she shakes her nut-brown head.

      'Wrong.'

      'I have it!' he cries eagerly. 'I know more about the subject than you think; it has been dyed.'

      The mirth has retired from her mouth, and now lurks in the tail of her bright eye.

      'You did not find that out for yourself,' she says distrustfully; 'some one told you.'

      'Upon my honour, it is my own unassisted discovery,' replies he solemnly, and then they both laugh.

      Finding herself betrayed into such a harmony of light-hearted merriment with him, Margaret pulls herself up. After all, she must not forget that there is a medium between the stiff politeness she had planned and this hail-fellow-well-met-ness into which she finds herself somehow sliding. Nor does his next sentence, though innocently enough meant, at all conduce to make her again relax her austerity.

      'I should not allow my wife to dye her wedding-gown black.'

      His wife! How dare he allude to such a person? He, with his illegal Betty ogling and double-entendre-ing and posturing opposite! How dare he allude to marriage at all? He to whom that sacred tie is a derision! She has frozen up again.

      Without having the faintest suspicion of the cause, he is wonderingly aware of the result. Is it possible that she can object to his introducing his hypothetical wife into the consideration? She is more than welcome to retort upon him with her supposititious husband. He will give her the chance.

      'Would you?'

      'Would I what?'

      'Dye your wedding-gown black?'

      She knows that she would not. She knows that she would lay it up in lavender, and tenderly show the yellowed skirt and outlandish sleeves to her grandchildren forty years hence. But in the pleasure of contradicting him, truth is worsted.

      'Yes.'

      'You would?' in a tone of surprise.

      She must repeat her fib.

      'Yes.'

      'Well, I should not have thought it.'

      He would like her to ask him why he would not have thought it; but she does not oblige him.

      'I think it would show a want of sentiment,' pursues he perseveringly.

      'Yes?'

      Good heavens! If she has not got back again to her monosyllable!

      'Do not you?'

      'No.'

      'I should think it would bring ill-luck, should not you?'

      'No.'

      'Should not you, really?'

      'I do not think that it is worth arguing about,' replies Peggy, roused and wearied. 'I may dye mine, and you need not dye yours, and we shall neither of us be any the worse.'

      'And yet – ' he begins; but she interrupts him.

      'After all,' she says, turning once more upon him those two dreadfully direct blue eyes – 'after all, I am not at all sure that it is not a good emblem of marriage – the white gown that goes through muddy waters, and comes out black on the other side.'

      There is such a weight of meaning and emphasis in her words that he is silent, and wishes that she had kept to her monosyllables.

      CHAPTER IV

      'Yon meaner beauties of the night,

       That poorly satisfy our eyes,

       More by your number than your light;

       You common people of the skies,

       What are you when the moon shall rise?'

      'Oh, Peggy! I have had such a dinner!' cries Prue, in an ecstatic voice, drawing her sister away into a window as soon as the ladies have reached the drawing-room.

      'Have you indeed?' replies Margaret distrustfully, and wilfully misunderstanding. 'Had you two helps of venison, like Mr. Evans?'

      'Oh! I am not talking of the food!' rejoins the other impatiently. 'I do not know whether or not I ate anything; I do not think I did. But they were so amusing, I did not want to talk. He saw that I did not want to talk, so he let me sit and listen.'

      'That was very considerate of him.'

      'She was so amusing; she told us such funny stories about Mr. Harborough – no harm, you know, but rather making game of him. I do not know what Mrs. Evans meant by saying that she stuck at nothing. She said one or two things that I did not quite understand; but I am sure there was no harm in them.'

      'Perhaps not.'

      'And she was so kind to me,' pursues Prue, with enthusiasm; 'trying to draw me into the conversation, asking how long I had been out.'

      But here the sisters' tête-à-tête is broken in upon by the high-pitched voice of the subject of their conversation.

      'Who would like to come and see my children in bed? Do not all speak at once. H'm! nobody? This is hardly gratifying to a mother's feelings. Miss Lambton, I am sure you will come; you look as if you were fond of children. And you, Miss Prue, I shall insist upon your coming, whether you like it or not!'

      So saying she puts her hand familiarly through the delighted little girl's arm, and walks off with her, Peggy following grudgingly. She has not the slightest desire to see the young Harboroughs, asleep or wake; though she has already had to defend her heart against an inclination to grow warm towards them, upon their rosy nightgowned entry before dinner. She has to defend it still more strongly, when, the nursery being reached, she sees them lying in the all-gentleness of perfect slumber in their cribs. Even that not innumerous class who dislike the waking child, the self-assertive, interrogative, climbing, bawling, smashing, waking child, grow soft-hearted at the sight of the little sleeping angel. Is this really Lady Betty bending over the little bed? recovering the outflung chubby arm from fear of cold, straightening the coverlets, and laying a light hand on the cool forehead? Peggy ought to be pleased by such a sign of grace; but when we have formed a conception of a person we are seldom quite pleased by the discovery of a fact that declines to square with that conception.

      'You are very fond of them?' she says in a whisper, that, without her intending it, is interrogative; and through which pierces perhaps a tone of more surprise than she is herself aware of.

      Lady Betty stares.

      'Fond of them! Why, I am a perfect fool about them; at least I am about him! I do not care so much about her; she is a thorough Harborough! Did you ever see such a likeness as hers to her father? He' (with a regretful motion of the head toward the boy's bed) 'is a little like him too; but he has a strong look of me. When his eyes are open he is the image of me. I have a good mind to wake him to show you.'

      'Oh, do not!' cries Margaret eagerly; 'it would be a sin!'

      But the caution is needless. The mother had no real thought of breaking in upon that lovely slumber.

      'Did you ever see such a duck?' says she rapturously, stooping over him; 'and his hand!' – taking the little plump fist softly into her own palm – 'look at his hand! Will not he be a fine strong man? He can pummel his nurse already, cannot he, Harris? And not a day's illness in all his little life, bless him!'

      Her eyes are almost moist as she speaks. The colour would no doubt come and go in her cheeks, only that unfortunately it has contracted the habit of never going, unless washed off by eau-de-Cologne. Against her will, Peggy feels her ill opinion melting away like mist; but happily, on her return to the drawing-room, she is able to restore it in its entirety. For no sooner have the men appeared than Lady Betty disappears. The exact moment of her flight and its companion Peggy has been unable to verify; as, at the moment when it must have taken place, she was buttonholed by Mrs. Evans on the subject of rose-rash, an unhandsome little disorder at present rioting among the Evans's ranks; and for which Peggy is supposed to have a specific. But though she did not actually see the person who shared Lady Betty's evasion, she is as sure as to who it was

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