"She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I am to be here this afternoon?" "Yes. I told her." "I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a quick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that." "Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a little frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young man, with Freddy goodness knows where--"She may have other engagements," she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to her hansom and disappears. Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive into the dining-room. "I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seating himself without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. "Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the carving knife and fork. Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it he suspends operation for a moment to look at them. He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths. "Eh?" says he, involuntarily. "Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone. "Say what?" says he. "Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. "Oh--er--yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home--the--er? He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for help. "What's that?" demands Tommy promptly. "I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation. Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply.