Here there came a tap at the door. It was Phoebe: Miss Catharine sent her to say it was a quarter-past eight: should she make the coffee? "Look at that!" said Mrs. Furze: "shall she make the coffee!--after what has happened! That's the kind of girl she is. It strikes me you had better have nothing to do with her and leave her to me." Phoebe tapped again. "Certainly not," replied Mrs. Furze. "I'll begin," she added to her husband, "by letting her know that at least I am not dead." "We'll, we'd better go. You just tackle her, and I'll chime in." The couple descended, but their plan of campaign was not very clearly elaborated, and even the one or two lines of assault which Mrs. Furze had prepared turned out to be useless. It is all very well to decide what is to be done with a human being if the human being will but comport himself in a fairly average manner, but if he will not the plan is likely to fail. Mr. Furze was very restless during his meal. He went to the window two or three times, and returned with the remark that it was going to be wet; but the observation was made in a low, mumbling tone. Mrs. Furze was also fidgety, and, in reply to her daughter's questions, complained of headache, and wondered that Catharine could not see that she had had no sleep. At last the storm broke. "Catharine!" said Mrs. Furze, "it _was_ Tom, then, who came home with you last night." "It was Tom, mother." "Tom! What do you mean, child? How--how did he--where did you meet him?" Mr. Furze retired from the table, where the sun fell full upon him, and sat in the easy chair, where he was more in the shade. "He overtook me somewhere near the Rectory." "Now, Catharine, don't answer your mother like that," interposed Mr. Furze; "you know what you heard, or might have heard, last Sunday morning, that prevarication is very much like a lie; why don't you speak out the truth?" Catharine was silent for a moment. "I have answered exactly the question mother asked."