Harry looked wretchedly disappointed, but said nothing. “I never heard him say anything of the sort.” “I am sure of it, though. I am very sorry he has mistaken me; but he will know me better some day.” “I will take all the responsibility,” persisted Mrs. Elton. “But unfortunately the responsibility sticks too fast for you to take it. I cannot get rid of my share if I would.” “You are too particular. I am sure Mr. Arnold never could have meant that. This is my house too.” “But Harry is his boy. If you will let me come and see him sometimes, I shall be very thankful, though. I may be useful to him without giving him lessons.” “Thank you,” said Harry with delight. “Well, well! I suppose you are so much in request in London that you won’t miss him for a pupil.” “On the contrary, I have not a single engagement. If you could find me one, I should be exceedingly obliged to you.” “Dear! dear! dear!” said Mrs. Elton. “Then you shall have Harry.” “Oh! yes; please take me,” said Harry, beseechingly. “No, I cannot. I must not.” Mrs. Elton rang the bell. “James, tell the coachman I want the carriage in an hour.” Mrs. Elton was as submissive to her coachman as ladies who have carriages generally are, and would not have dreamed of ordering the horses out so soon again for herself; but she forgot everything else when a friend was in need of help, and became perfectly pachydermatous to the offended looks or indignant hints of that important functionary. Within a few minutes after Hugh took his leave, Mrs. Elton was on her way to repeat a visit she had already paid the same morning, and to make several other calls, with the express object of finding pupils for Hugh. But in this she was not so successful as she had expected. In fact, no one whom she could think of, wanted such services at present. She returned home quite down-hearted, and all but convinced that nothing could be done before the approach of the London season. CHAPTER XVII. STRIFE. They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, An adder and a snake; But haud me fast, let me not pass, Gin ye would be my maik. They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, An adder and an aske; They’ll turn me in your arms, Janet, A bale that burns fast. They’ll shape me in your arms, Janet, A dove, but and a swan; And last, they’ll shape me in your arms A mother-naked man: Cast your green mantle over me— And sae shall I be wan. Scotch Ballad: Tamlane.