The girls had not come down as yet, and, in
fact, would not arrive until about three. Mr.
Tillotson, having done enough work for the day,
was thinking doubtfully whether he could, indeed,
find in the White Hart sufficient entertainment
for what remained, or whether, after
all——When he heard a cheerful voice in the
passage.

"I've come for you," said Mr. Tilney,
cheerfully. "They're all out on the green. But
the girls are not gone as yet. I promised to
step down for you. For we want to make a
party, and come on the ground in grand style."

It was a pity they were so pressed for time,
otherwise a few minutes' communion with brown
sherry would have come in suitably. As it was,
Mr. Tilney was looking round restlessly for
something to complete his comfort. But he felt
there was really no time.

The White Hart was dismal enough, and Mr.
Tillotson, although he made some protest, felt
that the change was a relief. Mr. Tilney talked
to him, on the way, of his usual topics. One
remark he made was, that it was odd, now, that
we should find the girls at this place, for they
hated showing themselves at public places.

"You know, Tillotson, and you have seen
what they like; their tastes are for the little sort
of thing we had last night. But their mother
and I think it better, you know——"

When they were close to the house, they met
a friendly local doctor, whom Mr. Tilney in a
moment had by the arm, with some secret of
importance.

"Go on, Tillotson," he said. "You  know the
way. You'll find them in the drawing-room.
No ceremony."

Mr. Tillotson walked on. The little green
gate was open, and so was the hall door. He
walked up pensively, and his footsteps made no
noise upon the gravel.

At that moment there was a curious discussion
going on inside. The ladies had come from their
chamber in bright and new gloves. They might
have been going to a wedding. They had found
the Cinderella of the house also dressed, not
nearly so splendidly, but almost more effectively.
That golden hair, which could be seen so far off
under the sun, was worth all the lace shawls and
finery which decked her sisters and mamma.
They were indignant.

"We may as well stay at home," Augusta now
said. "I give up. I don't want to be going to
these places in a tribe, like a school. I feel quite
ashamed."

Ada said softly: "I don't care in the least for
it, indeed, only William made such a point of it,
and made me promise last night——"

The morning silks rustled and flustered with
indignation

"What a romance!" said Helen, scornfully.
"What a lover to be proud of. I should be
ashamed!"

Mrs. Tilney now came in, armed with a sharp
parasol all covered with lace. She saw the third
girl dressed, and the smile, which she had
put on with her bonnet, dropped down, as a glass
drops from a gentleman's eye.

"This ends it," she said. "What is the meaning
of this new fit of gaiety? You must stay at
home, ma'am, or go by yourself. Though, I
suppose," she added impatiently, ''we must take
you, or we shall have some scene with that
low man before people."

"I know what it is," said Augusta, working
her chin at her bonnet-strings as if she were
champing her bit. "I know it perfectly well,
mamma. She has laid herself out for that old
Tillotson that was here last night. I was watching
her artful tricks while we were talking to
Major Canby—trying him with her melancholy
airs and her dismal stories."

Three faces of scorn and indignation were bent
on the timid girl, who was colouring in confusion;
three parasols were grasped tightly as
though they were falchions. Mrs. Tilney rustled
violently past a chair aud flung her dress back,
as if it were in fault.

"I saw her, too, Augusta. But we won't have
these doings, ma'am, if you please. Just keep in
your room," &c. &c.

Mr. Tilney, hurrying from the friendly doctor,
met Mr. Tillotson coming to him. "Why, bless
me, why didn't you go in? Now this is unfair,
standing on ceremony with me! Ah, Tillotson,
Tillotson!" And with a gentle force he led him
back again.

They met the ladies at the door, who were
light-hearted and full of happiness and a childish
gaiety and affection. They were the mere innocent
butterflies of life, who lived for the hour in
eternal sunshine and eternal good humour.
This was the idea they presented to the eye of a
mortal like Mr. Tillotson. Mrs. Tilney had
fitted on her smile again. Three new fresh pale
kid gloves were put in his hand, and each glove
was accompanied with a dimpling smile.

"Where's Ada?" said Mr. Tilney. "She's
coming, I know."

"I don't think she's quite able," said Mrs.
Tilney, with some hesitation.

"She's not coming, papa," said Miss Augusta,
shortly.

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Tilney; "the air will
do her good. There, I see her in the drawing-
room with her bonnet on. God bless me! I
knew she was coming; I told you so."

Sometimes Mr. Tilney made stupid "bungling"
mistakes of this sort, which arose out of a
momentary enthusiasm and happiness in the
contemplation of the works of his Maker. This
feeling often carried him away. Mrs. Tilney
walked on without replying, the smile having
dropped again. And Augusta, who had all the
versatility of a social "Stonewall" Tilney, suddenly
changed her "base," and seemed to long
for the company of her sister. "I shall run and
tell her, Mr. Tillotson," she said, confidentially,
"and make her come." And thus the golden-
haired girl had to come with them.