“Well, now, that’s getting out of the scrape handsomely, after all,” returned Mrs. Dilberry. “I knew from the way you and Jane Louyza got along last night that you could easily make it up, and would soon be as thick as two pick-pockets. Here, Jane Louyza, Mr. Allanby is ready to shake hands and be friends, and he says he is willing to make any amends you please for being impolite;” and as Miss Jane Louisa approached, simpering and holding out her large, red hand, her mother added: “There, now, you have him in your power. You know you always said you would jump out of your skin to see an opera, and now’s your time. I dare say he would think he was getting off very well to take you there to-night.” “Certainly, ma’am,” said poor George, coloring and stammering with the embarrassment common to his years, and turning to the daughters, he blundered on—“I shall be happy if Miss Jane Ann—that is, if both the young ladies will honor me with their company.” “With the greatest of pleasure,” curtseyed the ecstatic Jane Louisa. “The favor is to us,” rejoined the dignified Esther Ann. “You are not to trick me that way, you young people,” exclaimed Mrs. Dilberry. “I should like to go to the theatre as well as any of you, and if you a’n’t civil enough to invite me, I’ll go whether or no. Let’s all go, Mrs. Allanby, and have a jolly time of it. You and I can beau each other.” I excused myself with rather more energy than was necessary. “Well, I mean to go, anyhow,” resumed the old lady, “though, of course, I’ll pay my own way. It would be imposing upon Mr. Allanby to make him go to the expense of paying for so many of us.” “Not at all, ma’am,” said George, looking still redder and more frightened, “where shall I call for you?” There was a pause, but as I had not the grace to break it by answering “here,” Miss Esther Ann had to reply— “We stop at the W—— Hotel,” and the conscripted squire of dames made a precipitate retreat. “We’ll have to go back to the hotel, maw, at once,” said Miss Jane Louisa, “for you know ladies must always go to the opera in full-dress. I’ll have to press out my book-muslin dress, and take the wreath off my bonnet to wear on my head, and Easter Ann must fix something to put on.” “That will be quite unnecessary,” said I, anticipating all sorts of mortifications for my inexperienced brother-in-law, “you may have seats where you will be able to see and hear every thing, without being so conspicuous as to make any material change in your dress necessary. Strangers, who neither know any one nor are known themselves, generally prefer being unobserved, and saving themselves the trouble of much dressing. You will all do very well just as you are.”