“A peck of March dust is worth a king’s ransom,” say I slowly next morning, as I stand by the window, trying to see clearly through the dimmed and tearful pane. “The king would have to do without his ransom to-day.”

It is raining mightily; strong, straight, earnest rain, that harshly lashes the meek earth, that sends angry runlets down the gravel walks, that muddies the gold goblets of the closed crocuses.

“And you without your walk!” says Barbara, lifting her face from her stitching. “Poor Miss Nancy!”

“There is not enough blue sky to make a cat a pair of breeches!” cries Bobby, despondently, and with his usual vulgarity.

Sometimes I am tempted to fear that Bobby is hopelessly ungenteel ungenteel for life. He has now taken possession of another window, and is consulting the eastern sky.

“A ransomless king, and a trouserless cat! That is about the state of the case!” say I, turning away from the window with a grin.

After all, now I come to think of it, I am nearly as vulgar as Bobby. But I am right. Through the day, through the long, light, cold evening, the posture of the weather changes not. To-day, Barbara, Algy, and I, are all constrained to dine; for have not we a dinner-party, or rather a mild simulation of one? a squire or two, a squiress or two, a curate or two such odd-come-shorts as can be got together in a scattered country neighborhood at briefest notice. Barbara and I, as it happens, are both late. It is five minutes past eight, when with the minor details of our toilets a good deal slurred, with a paucity of bracelets and lack of necessary pins, we hurriedly and sneakingly enter the drawing-room, and find all our guests already come together. Mother gives us an almost imperceptible glance of gentle reproach, but father is so occupied in bantering a strange miss banter in which the gallant and the fatherly happily join to make that manner which is the envy and admiration of the neighborhood that he seems unconscious of our entrance. An intuition, however, tells us that this is not the case, but that he is making a note of it. This depresses us so much that, until song and sherry have comforted and emboldened us, we have not spirits to make any effort toward the entertainment of our neighbors. We have been paired with a couple of curates. Mine is a strong-handed, ingenuous Ishmael, who tells everybody that he hates his trade, and that he thinks it is very hard that he may not get out of it, now that his elder brother is dead. I am thankful to say that his appetite is as vast as his shoulders; so, after I have told him that I love raw oysters, and that Barbara cannot sit in the room with a roast hare; and have heard in return that he does not care about brill, but worships John Dory, we slide into a gluttonous silence, and abide in it. Barbara’s man of God is in a wholly different pattern to mine. He is a macerated little saint, with the eyes of a ferret and the heart of a mouse. As the courses pass by, in savory order, I, myself unemployed, watch my sister gradually reassuring, comforting, heartening him, as is her way with all weakly, maimed, and unhandsome creatures. She has succeeded in thawing him into a thin trickle of parochial talk, when mother bends her laced and feathered head in distant signal from the table-top, and off we go. We drink coffee, we drink tea, we pick clever little holes in our absent neighbors, in brisk duet and tortuous solo we hammer the blameless spinnet, we sing affecting songs about “fair doves,” and “cleansing fires,” and people “far away,” and still our deliverers come not. They must hear our appealing melodies clearly through the walls and doors, but still they come not. Sunk in sloth and old port, still they come not. I seem to have said every possible thing that is to be said on every known subject to the young woman beside me, and now I am falling asleep. I feel it. Lulled by the warm glow diffused through the room, by the smell of the jonquils, lilies of the valley and daphnés, by the low even talk, I am slipping into slumber. The door opens, and I jump into wakefulness; Sir Roger to the rescue. I am afraid that I look at him with something not unlike invitation in my eyes, for he makes straight toward me.

“Wish me good-morning,” say I, rubbing my eyes, “for I have been sweetly asleep. I fell asleep wondering which of you would come first somehow I thought it would be you. Are you going to sit here? Oh! that is all right!” as he subsides into the next division of the ottoman to mine. “What have you been talking about?” I continue, with a contented, chatty feeling, leaning my elbow on the blue-satin ottoman-top; “any thing pleasant? Did not you hear our screams for help through the wall?”

“Have not we come in answer to them?”

Yes; they are all here now, at last; all, from father down to the curates; some sitting resolutely down, some standing uncertainly up. Barbara’s protege, with frightened stealth, is edging round the furniture to where she sits on a little chair alone. Barbara is locketless, braceletless, chainless, head-dressless! such was our unparalleled haste to abscond. Ornaments has she none but those that God has given her: a sweep of blond hair, a long, cool throat, and two smooth arms that lie bare and white as any milk on her lap. As he nervously draws near, she lifts her eyes with a lovely friendliness to his face. He is poor, slightly thought of, sickly, not over-clever; probably she will talk to him all the evening.

“Look at Barbara!” say I, with deep admiration, familiarly laying my hand on Sir Roger’s coat-sleeve, to make sure of engaging his attention, “that is always her way! Did you ever see any thing so cruelly shy as that poor little man is? See! he is wriggling all over like an eel! He came to call the other day, and while he was talking to mother I watched him. He tore a pair of quite new tea-green gloves into thin strips, like little thongs! He must find it rather expensive work, if he makes many morning calls, must he not?”

“Rather!”

“I am sure that you and Barbara would get on,” continue I, loquaciously, leaning my head on my hand, and talking in that low, comfortable voice that our proximity warrants; “I cannot understand how it was that you did not make great friends that first night! I suppose that you are not poor and ugly and depressed enough for her to make much of you! Shall I make a sign to her to come over and talk to us?”

Sir Roger does not accept my proposal with the alacrity I had expected.

“Do not you think that she looks very comfortable where she is?” he asks, rather doubtfully.

I am a little disappointed.

“I am sure she would like you,” I say, with a dogmatic shake of the head. “I told her that you were well, that I got on with you, and we always like the same people.”

“That must be awkward sometimes?”

“What do you mean? Oh! not in that way ” (with an unblushing heart-whole laugh). “Lucky for me that we do not.”

“Lucky for you?” (interrogatively).

“Why will you make me say things that sound mock-modest?” cry I, reddening a little this time. “You know perfectly well what I mean it is not likely that any one would look at me when Barbara was by you can have no notion,” continue I, speaking very fast to avoid contradiction, “how well she looks when she is dancing never gets hot, or flushed, or mottled, as so many people do.”

“And you? how do you look?”

“I grow purple,” I answer, laughing “a rich imperial purple, all over. If you had once seen me, you would never forget me.”

“Go on: tell me something more about Barbara!”

He has settled himself with an air of extreme repose and enjoyment. We really are very comfortable.

“Well,” say I, nothing loath, for I have always dearly loved the sound of my own voice, “do you see that man on the hearth-rug? do not look at him this very minute, or he will know that we are speaking of him. I cannot imagine why father has asked him here to-night he wants to marry Barbara; he has never said it, but I know he does: the boys we all, indeed call him Toothless Jack! he is not old really, I suppose not more than fifty, that is; but for Barbara! ”

I think that Sir Roger is beginning to find me rather tiresome: evidently he is not listening: he has even turned away his head.

There is a movement among the guests, the first detachment are bidding good-night, the rest speedily do the like. Father follows his favorite miss into the hall, cloaks her with gallant care, and through the door I hear him playfully firing off parting jests at her as she drives away. Then he returns to the drawing-room. Sir Roger has gone to put on his smoking-coat, I suppose. Father is alone with his wife and his two lovely daughters. We make a faint movement toward effacing ourselves, but our steps are speedily checked.

“Barbara! Nancy!”

“Yes, father” (in a couple of very small voices).

“May I ask what induced you to keep my guests waiting half an hour for their dinner to-night?”

No manner of answer. How hooked his nose looks! how fearfully like a hawk he has grown all in a minute!

“When you have houses of your own,” he continues with iced politeness, “you may of course treat your visitors to what vagaries you please, but as long as you deign to honor my roof with your presence, you will be good enough to behave to my guests with decent civility, do you hear?”

“Well, Roger, how is the glass? up or down? What is it doing? Are we to have a fine day to-morrow?”

For Roger apparently has got quickly into his smoking-coat: at least he is here: he has heard all. Barbara and I crawl away with no more spring or backbone in us than a couple of torpid, wintery flies.

Five minutes later, “Do you wonder that we hate him?” cry I, with flaming cheeks, holding a japanned candlestick in one hand, and Sir Roger’s right hand in the other.

“I do not care if he does hear me! yes, I do, though” (giving a great jump as a door bangs close to me).

Sir Roger is looking down at me with an expression of most thorough discomfiture and silent pain in his face.

“He did not mean it, Nancy!” he says, hesitatingly, and with a sort of look of shamed wonder in his friendly eyes.

“Did not he?” (ironically).

A little pause, the position of the japanned candlestick and of Sir Roger’s hand still remaining the same. “How I wish that you were my father instead!” I say with a sort of sob. He does not, as I fully expect, say, “So do I!” and I go to bed, feeling rather small, as one who has gushed, and whose gush has not been welcome to the recipient.