Thanks to the girls, the arrangement of the table was tasteful also; there were freshly-gathered flowers peeping out from baskets filled with moss; there were cool lettuces and crisp radishes, and little banks of mustard and cress, all placed and grouped with a certain artistic effect; there was home-made bread, not brown and sodden as home-made bread usually is, but white and light as Mrs. Piggott’s hands could make it; there were delicious pats of yellow butter, brought straight from the dairy; there were late cherries and strawberries, and early raspberries, gooseberries, and currants on the table; all daintily set out with green leaves; all looking, to quote Bessie, “as though somebody cared for them.” There was cream so rich that Mrs. Ormson declared it made her feel inclined to forswear London for ever; while, for those who desired substantial refreshment, Mrs. Piggott had sent up her usual _pièce de resistance_—a round of spiced beef, together with fowls, a ham, and a couple of veal pies, which latter were, she knew, considered her speciality. Tarts also were there, and various “shapes;” for the good lady declared Mrs. Ormson should not go back to town and say “she never saw a meal fit for a Christian to sit down to in the house, leastways she sha’n’t say it with truth,” finished Mrs. Piggott, as she arranged a paper frill like a shroud round the knuckle end of the ham, and garnished her beef with parsley. Through the open windows the scent of many flowers came floating on the night air into the room, and the light of the lamp fell on the quiet faces of the young people gathered round the table. “Where is Bessie?” inquired Mrs. Ormson, as Mrs. Dudley re-entered the apartment. “She will be here presently,” Heather answered, taking her seat; but many minutes passed before Bessie made her appearance, and, shrinking away from the light, drew a chair towards one of the windows, declaring she did not want any supper, that she was tired and lazy, and thought eating destructive to the romance of life. “Don’t be absurd, Bessie,” said Mrs. Ormson. “Nothing can be further from my intention,” was the reply. “How did you come from the station, Heather?” asked Laura, the youngest of the second generation of Dudleys. “I never heard the fly drive up to the door.” “We came back with Mr. Raidsford,” said Heather. “You came with whom?” demanded Arthur Dudley, from the other end of the table. “With Mr. Raidsford. He travelled down in the same compartment, and kindly offered to drive us home; but our luggage, at least a box of Mrs. Ormson’s, we left at Palinsbridge. I suppose the pony-cart can go over for it to-morrow?” “Good heavens! mamma is going to take up her residence here,” whispered Bessie to Alick, who was seated within earshot.