On Saturday morning a dogcart came over to convey Robert to the Larches, and the atmosphere of the vicarage seemed charged with expectation and excitement. The Darcys had arrived; to-morrow they would appear at church; on Monday they would probably drive over with Rob and pay a call. These were all important facts in a quiet country life, and seemed to afford unlimited satisfaction to every member of the household. Peggy grew so tired of the name of Darcy that she retired to her room at eight o'clock, and was busy at work over the September batch of cards, when a knock came to the door, and she had to cover them over with the blotting-paper to admit Mellicent in her dressing-gown, with her hair arranged for the night in an extraordinary number of little plaited pigtails. "Will you fasten the ends for me, Peggy, please?" she requested. "When I do it, the threads fall off, and the ends come loose. I want it to be specially nice for to-morrow!" "But it will look simply awful, Mellicent, if you leave it like this. It will be frizzed out almost on a level with your head. Let me do it up in just two tight plaits; it will be far, far nicer," urged Peggy, lifting one little tail after another, and counting their number in dismay. But no, Mellicent would not be persuaded. The extra plaits were a tribute to Rosalind, a mark of attention to her on her arrival with which she would suffer no interference; and as a consequence of her stubbornness she marched to church next morning disfigured by a mop of untidy, tangled hair, instead of the usual glossy locks.