"Farewell, Miss Mulcaster," said George.

And he rode away.

When Mrs. Mulcaster and her younger
daughter returned from their drive, they
perceived at a glance that something had ruffled
the tranquillity of the spoiled sovereign; and,
by dint of respectful cross-examination, at
length elicited the startling truth. George was
dismissed! George—the old playmate, friend,
accepted suitor, betrothed husband—banished
to the Siberia of distant civility, without hope
of recal!

Perhaps, for the first time in her life, Mrs.
Mulcaster experienced a burning desire to box
her darling's ears. The latter had never been
at the pains to conceal her aversion to George's
unlucky name, but none dreamed that it was so
deeply rooted. Sacrifice an amiable, honourable
man, whom she unquestionably liked (not to
mention sixteen thousand a year!), for a name,
a word! Dismiss the familiar George into the
region of ordinary acquaintance—perhaps
alienate him altogether—perhaps goad him
into some foolish alliance, such as, in his
passion, he had hinted at!

"Child, child!" cried Mrs. Mulcaster, breaking
all allegiance, and wringing her hands in
despair, "what—what have you done?"

The child evinced on this occasion a less
imperious bearing, and made a far more feeble fight
than might have been expected of her. Still, the
necessity of defending her prerogative induced
her to vindicate with some warmth her title—
so long allowed—to do precisely as she pleased.
She really could not understand the unprovoked
attack thus made upon her, and by those from
whom, of all others, she had a right to look for
solace and support. Two to one (Louey had not
opened her lips) was usually considered unfair
odds, and, but for a sense of duty, she would
decline a controversy conducted on such principles.

What was the duty? Why, the duty she
owed her sex, which was that of her assailants,
to check the proud pretensions, the cool self-
sufficiency, of those who preferred their suit,
just as if such a thing as refusal was not to be
dreamed of.

Consented? Well, yes, in a manner, she
had. But that was beside the question. She
was saying, when interrupted by clamour, or was
going to say, that really any young lady who,
at her own expense, administered a wholesome
rebuke to such pretenders, deserved well of her
sex, her country, and her family, not, at all
events, to be chidden like an infant by those to
whom she fled for suc—for suc—succ—succour
in her m—mise—misery;—concluding with a
burst of tears, which completed the business, and
caused the much-injured beauty to be soothed,
entreated, idolised, for the rest of the day.

Speculation now set in.

"But whom," resumed Mrs. Mulcaster, "can
George marry? Suppose him serious in this
mad idea, it is the merest chance in the world
that he should meet with any woman of respectable
station before reaching home. Suppose it
were a village-girl, gathering fagots! Imagine
a gipsy! You may laugh, but, take my word
for it, George Gosling is the man, of all others,
to adhere to a resolution once made, however
intrinsically absurd. Ridicule would not deter
him. His regard for a pledge, or promise of
any kind, is almost fanatical. Let me see. At
his own lodge, he's happily safe. There are
only the old people. Sally Downey's gone to
service. There would have been a chance for
Sally! And she was a plump, rosy little woman.
I've seen him chat and laugh with her."

"Perhaps," said Miss Louisa, unguardedly,
"George recollected that Sally was the usual
portress."

"He did nothing of the sort," said Mildred,
decisively. "I wonder, Louey, you dare to
make so unworthy a suggestion."

"It was a foolish observation, my love," said
her mother. "Your sister, I am sure, already
regrets having made it."

"No, I don't," said Louey, hardily.

"Hush, my dear. (Footstool nearer to your
sister. So.) Now then, who is there at
Gosling Graize?"

"No visitors at all," said Louisa. "As to
the servants, if you can possibly allude to them,
they're almost all oldish and—and fattish—the
cook enormous! Mrs. Mapes, the housekeeper,
is laid up with rheumatism. But really, dearest
mother, we may spare ourselves these grotesque
conjectures. That George will do his best to
keep his wicked vow, or whatever he chooses
to call it, I think very probable. But his safety
lies in the respect of those about him. Not
one of the household would be so forgetful of all
decency, so wanting in duty, as to regard such a
proposal as anything more than a boyish jest!"

Mrs. Mulcaster coughed gently. She had
seen something more of the world and its ways
than her daughter. That look of manifest
uneasiness provoked the petted Mildred.

"I do think, mamma—it is positively cruel
in you!" she said, in a fretting tone.

"'Cruel,' dear? In me? To do what?"

"To make so much of such utter nonsense.
You must see how it annoys me—yet you pursue
the subject."

"Pursue, my dear! I did not say one word,"
pleaded poor Mrs. Mulcaster. "I appeal to
Louey."

Louey came gallantly to the rescue.

"Mamma said nothing, Mildred. It was I."

"I am obliged, Louisa, by your flat
contradiction," said Mildred, with dignity. "But I
never said mamma had spoken. Her looks,
however, were eloquent—and I repeat——"

"Mildred, Mildred," said her mother, "this
is too bad. Is it not, Louisa?"

"It is unkind and unfair," said the latter,
warmly, "and I——"

Mildred burst into tears.

"Louisa, Louisa!" exclaimed Mrs. Mulcaster,
turning fiercely on her ally. "How dare
you address your elder sister in that tone? Do,
I beg, restrain that impetuosity of temper.
There! Wipe the pretty eyes. Come, now—
compose yourself. Hark, love! A visitor!"