And such will always be this, which I may v consider the last of my nights at Rockmount. They would not hear of my leaving, though it was needless to sit up. And when I had seen Mr. Johnston safe, and snug for the night, they insisted on my joining the merry supper-table, where, relieved now from all care, the family assembled. The family included, of course, Mr. Charteris. I was the only stranger. They did not treat me as a stranger--you know that. Sometimes falling, as the little party naturally did, into two, and two, and two, it seemed as if the whole world were conspiring to wrap me in the maddest of delusions; as if I always had sat, and were meant to sit, familiarly, brotherly, at that family table; as if my old solitude were quite over and gone, never to return more. And, over all, was the atmosphere of that German love-tale, which came up curiously to the surface, and caused a conversation, which, in some parts of it, seems the strangest thing of all that strange evening. It was Mrs. Treherne who originated it. She asked her sister what had we been doing that we were so exceedingly quiet upstairs? “Reading--papa wished it.” And being further questioned, Miss Theodora told what had been read. Mrs. Treherne burst out laughing immoderately. It would hardly be expected of such well-bred and amiable ladies, but I have often seen the eldest and youngest sisters annoy her--the second one--in some feminine way--men would never think of doing it, or guess how it is done--sufficient to call the angry blood to her cheeks, and cause her whole manner to change from gentleness into defiance. It was so now. “I do not see anything so very ridiculous in my reading to papa out of any book I choose.” I explained that I myself had begged for this one. “Oh! and I'm sure she was delighted to oblige you.” “I was,” she said, boldly; “and I consider that anything, small or great, which either I, or you, or Penelope, can do to oblige Doctor Urquhart, we ought to be happy and thankful to do for the remainder of our lives.” Mrs. Treherne was silenced. And here, Mr. Charteris--breaking the uncomfortable pause--good-naturedly began a disquisition on the play in question. He bore, for some time, the chief part in a literary and critical conversation, of which I did not hear or follow much. Then the ladies took up the story in its moral and personal phase, and talked it over pretty well. The youngest sister was voluble against it. She hated doleful books: she liked a pleasant ending, where the people were all married, cheerfully and comfortably. It was suggested, from my side of the table, that this play had not an uncomfortable ending, though the lovers both died. “What an odd notion of comfort Dora has,” said Mr. Charteris. “Yes, indeed,” added Mrs. Treherne. For if they hadn't died, were they not supposed never to meet again? My dear child, how do you intend to make your lover happy?