"Not quite so much as that," said Celia, still smiling. "Short and sweet, Madam Rowe!" observed Squire Harvey, who overheard her. "Ay, I won't contradict you there," she said. "And how old are you now, my dear? Seventeen?" "Nineteen, Madam." "Dear me! well, how time does go! To be sure, you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny, I remember. You should hold yourself up more, my dear: always make the best of yourself. You don't bridle so well as you might, either.[1] Really, you use not all your advantages." "Madam Rowe, that is what I am always telling her," said Isabella, with a faint assumption of energy, "and she takes no more notice"-- "Well, my dear," answered Madam Rowe, administering a dose of flattery, "you know we cannot all be as handsome as you." Isabella bridled, colored, and remained, though silent, evidently not displeased. Supper followed about six o'clock, and afterwards the basset-table was wheeled out by Harry, and the three Squires sat down with Dr. Braithwaite to enjoy their favorite game. After basset came prayers. As Dr. Braithwaite was present, of course he officiated; and, casting aside his cards, gravely took the Bible in his hand instead of them. A prayer followed--long, prolix, involved, and stony: more like a sermon than a prayer, nor a very simple sermon neither. The party now took their leave. Dr. and Mrs. Braithwaite walked to the vicarage, which was very near. As it was only a short distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe, Squire Harvey and his wife came and returned in their coach; the distance to Marcombe was longer, and the Rowes were on horseback. Harry went out and assisted the ladies to mount, Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son, and Anne behind her father. "Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come you away to bed," said Cicely, taking sudden possession of that personage. "What could I have been thinking of not to come for you before, I should like to know? To think of you being up at this time! A quarter to nine, I do declare!" "I don't know what you were thinking of, but I wish you would think about it every night!" answered Lucy, resigning herself to fate in the person of Cicely. "Well, I shall go to bed also," said Isabella, yawning, and rising from the embroidery-frame. "I protest I am as tired as if it were Sunday evening! That John Rowe is the most tedious young man." "You had better all go, my dears," responded Madam Passmore. "Good-night to you all. Good-night, Celia." Celia fancied that her mother repeated the greeting to her with a tenderness in her voice which was scarcely usual with her. Was she thinking of the coming revelation? She found Cicely helping Lucy to undress. "Cicely," she asked, sitting down, "how do you pray?" "Oh, that horrid Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. "I nearly fell asleep before he had half done." "Make haste, Miss Lucy, my dear. You'd ought to have been a-bed long ago. How I pray, Mrs. Celia? Why, just like anybody else."