"What is the name?" demands he, gloomily, fully expecting the hated word "Kennedy" to fall from her lips. "Better let me know it. Nothing you can possibly say can make me feel more thoroughly stranded than I am." "I think you are taking it very unreasonably," says Miss Broughton, with quivering lips. "If I cannot bring myself to love anybody as well as poor papa, I can't help it--and it isn't my fault--and you are very unkind to me--and----" "Good gracious! what a fright all about nothing!" says Mr. Branscombe, with a sigh of intense relief. "I don't mind your poor father, you know,--I rather admire your faithfulness there,--but I thought--er--it doesn't in the least matter what I thought," hastily: "every one has silly fancies at times." He kisses her lids warmly, tenderly, until the heavy drops beneath press through and run all down her charming childish face. "I am sure of this, at least," he says, hopefully, "that you like me better than any living man." "Well, I do, indeed," replies she, in a curious tone, that might be suggestive of surprise at her own discovery of this fact. "But, then, how bad you are to me at times! Dear Dorian,"--laying one hand, with a pathetic gesture, on his cheek,--"do not be cross to me again." "My sweetest!--my best beloved!" says Mr. Branscombe, instantly, drawing his breath a little quickly, and straining her to his heart. CHAPTER XXVI. "The wisdom of this world is idiotism."--DECKER. "If thou desirest to be borne with, thou must bear also with others."--KEMPIS. It takes some time to produce another governess suited to the Redmonds' wants. At length, however, the desired treasure is procured, and forwarded, "with care," to the vicarage. On inspection, she proves to be a large, gaunt, high-cheek-boned daughter of Caledonia, with a broad accent, a broader foot, and uncomfortably red hair. She comes armed with testimonials of the most severely complimentary description, and with a pronounced opinion that "salary is not so much an object as a comfortable home." Such a contrast to Georgie can scarcely be imagined. The Redmonds, in a body, are covered with despair, and go about the house, after her arrival, whispering in muffled tones, and casting blanched and stricken glances at each other. Dire dismay reigns in their bosoms; while the unconscious Scot unlocks her trunks, and shakes out her gowns, and shows plainly, by her behavior, that she has come to sit down before the citadel and carry on a prolonged siege.