"But you do think it, don't you?" "No. Barbara. There now, be a good sensible girl, and try to realize that I don't want you to accept this invitation, and that I am going to write to my mother in the morning to say it is impossible for us to leave home just now--as--as--eh?" "Oh, anything will do." "As baby is not very well? That's the usual polite thing, eh?" "Oh! no, don't say that," says Mrs. Monkton in a little, frightened tone. "It--it's unlucky! It might--I'm not a bit superstitious, Freddy, but it might affect baby in some way--do him some harm." "Very well, we'll tell another lie," says Mr. Monkton cheerfully. "We'll say you've got the neuralgia badly, and that the doctor says it would be as much as your life Is worth to cross the Channel at this time of year." "That will do very well," says Mrs. Monkton readily. "But--I'm not a bit superstitious," says he solemnly. "But it might affect you in some way, do you some harm, and--" "If you are going to make a jest of it, Freddy----" "It is you who have made the jest. Well; never mind, I accept the responsibility, and will create even another taradiddle. If I say we are disinclined to leave home just now, will that do?" "Yes," says she, after a second's struggle with her better self, in which it comes off the loser. "That's settled, then," says Mr. Monkton. "Peace with honor is assured. Let us forget that unfortunate letter, and all the appurtenances thereof." "Yes: do let us, Freddy," says she, as if with all her heart. * * * * * But the morning convinces Monkton that the question of the letter still remains unsettled. Barbara, for one thing, has come down to breakfast gowned in her very best morning frock, one reserved for those rare occasions when people drop in over night and sleep with them. She has, indeed, all the festive appearance of a person who expects to be called away at a second's notice into a very vertex of dissipation. Joyce, who is quite as impressed as Monkton with her appearance, gazes at her with a furtive amazement, and both she and Monkton wait in a sort of studied silence to know the meaning of it. They aren't given long to possess their souls in patience. "Freddy, I don't think Mabel ought to have any more jam," says Mrs. Monkton, presently, "or Tommy either." She looks at the children as she speaks, and sighs softly. "It will cost a great deal," says she. "The jam!" says her husband. "Well, really, at the rate they are consuming it--I----" "Oh, no. The railway--the boat--the fare--the whole journey," says she. "The journey?" says Joyce. "Why, to England, to take them over there to see their grandmother," says Mrs. Monkton calmly. "But, Barbara----" "Well, dear?" "I thought----" "Barbara! I really consider that question decided," says her husband, not severely, however. Is the dearest wish of his heart to be accomplished at last? "I thought you had finally made up your mind to refuse my mother's invitation?"