“Well, but is it not annoying? Everybody wanted, does not come; those not wanted, do. For instance: Doctor Urquhart--who always keeps both papa and Sir William in the best of humours, is not here. And Francis, who fidgets them both to death, and whom I was so thankful was not coming--he is just come. You stupid girl, you seem not the least bit sorry. You are thinking of something else the whole time.” I said, I was sorry, and was not thinking of anything else. “Augustus wanted to see him particularly; but I forgot, you don't know--however, you will soon, child. Still, isn't it a downright shame of Doctor Urquhart neither to come nor send?” I suggested something might have happened. “A railway accident. Dear me, I never thought of that.” “Nor I. Heaven knows, no!” I had a time-table, and searched through it for the last train stopping at Whitchester, then counted how long it would take to drive to Treherne Court, and looked at my watch. No, he could not be here to-night. “And if there had been any accident, there was time for us to have heard of it,” said Lisa, carelessly, as she took up her fan and gloves to go downstairs. “So, child, we must make the best we can of your friend's behaviour. Are you ready for dinner?”. “In two minutes.” I shut the door after my sister, and stood still, before the glass, fastening a brooch, or something. Mine, my friend. He was that. Whenever they were vexed with him, all the family usually called him so. It was very strange his not coming--having promised Augustus, for some reason which I did not know of. Also, there was another reason--which they did not know of--he had promised _me_. He once said to me, positively, that this, the first Christmas he has kept in England for many years, should be kept with us--with me. Now, a promise is a promise. I, myself, would keep one, at all costs, that involved no wrong to any other person. He is of the same mind. Then something must have happened. For a moment I had been angry, though scarcely with him; for wherever he was he would be doing his duty. Yet, why should he be always doing his duty to everyone, _except_ me? Had I no right? I, to whom even Lisa, who knew nothing, called him my friend? Yes, _mine_. Of a sudden I seemed to feel all that the word meant, and to take all the burthen of it. It quieted me. I went downstairs. There were the usual two lines of dinner-table faces--the usual murmur of dinner-table talk; but all was dim and uncertain, like a picture, or the sound of people chattering very far off. Colin beside me, kept talking about how well I looked in my new gown--how he would like to see me dressed as fine as a queen--and how he hoped we should spend many a Christmas as merry as this--till something seemed tempting me to bid him hold his tongue--myself to start up and scream.