should suggest their departure to her aunt. They had invitations for several nice houses; and General Mainwaring's was not far off, and Boyce Combe was there, and Harvey Grenville; so that she should be sure of plenty of fun. She had not seen Boyce Combe since the last Woolwich ball, and then he had been so horribly absurd, and had talked such ridiculous nonsense. He was so amusing, Major Combe; and--and then Major Combe's handsome, vacuous, simpering countenance, which for a moment had risen in Barbara's mind, faded again, and in its place there came a genial, clever, sensible face, with merry eyes and laughing mouth, and Major Combe's "ridiculous nonsense" seemed wretched balderdash as contrasted with Frank Churchill's pleasant talk. A knock at the door, following which promptly little Miss Townshend glides into the room. A nice little girl, as I have remarked; a charming little being, bright and winning, but not the sort of person for a companion when one is in that state so well described as "out of sorts." Who, I wonder, is pleasant company for us in a real or fancied trouble? Certainly not the enthusiastic gusher who flings his or herself upon our necks, and insists upon sharing our sorrow,--which is a thorough impossibility. Certainly not the pseudo-moralist who tells us that all is for the best, and quotes Scripture, and suggests that, though we have had to retire from Palace Gardens and live in Bedford Row, there are many outcasts then sleeping on the steps of Whitechapel Church; and that, though our darling's life may be trembling in the balance, there are fever-courts and pestilence-alleys, in no house of which "there is not one dead." Certainly not the lively friend who thinks that "rallying" is the best course for binding the broken heart and setting at rest the perturbed spirit, and who accordingly indulges in one perpetual effervescence of mild sarcasm and feeble teasing. Miss Townshend belonged to this latter class; and entered the room with a little skip and a long slide, which brought her to Barbara's side. "Oh, ho! and so we're annoyed, are we, and won't come among our friends? We sit and sulk by ourselves, do we?" "I cannot possibly imagine what you mean, Alice," said Barbara coldly. "Take care, please; you're standing on my dress." "Oh, of course not, poor darling, she can't imagine! But, without any joking, Barbara, it _is_ too bad." "What is too bad, Alice?" asked Barbara, without moving a muscle. She had a tremendous power over her face, and, when she chose, looked as impassible as the Sphynx, "staring straight on with calm eternal eyes."