When we began--which was not till another autumn restored us to Hilfont--to be able to give some entertainments to our country neighbors, in honor of our soldier, Alice, most cleverly and cunningly avoided coming. She had always some admirable excuse--some excuse so unquestionable that it would have been quite cruel to have grumbled at it. I do not think she had been once within our house since Bertie returned. She sent me her love, and the most dutiful messages. She was so sorry, but she was sure her dear Mrs. Crofton would not be displeased when she knew. I was displeased, however, and had hard ado with myself to keep from saying as much, and declaring my conviction that she was very unkind to Bertie. I daresay I might have done so with advantage, though prudence and the fear of something coming of it, restrained me--for the idea of being unkind to Bertie would, doubtless, have been balm to Alice’s soul. They met, however, though she would not come to Hilfont--Clara Sedgwick, who was as bold to give Bertie welcome as she had been to weep her free sisterly tears, which there was no need to conceal, over his supposed grave, arranged one of her very largest and grandest dinner-parties for Bertie as soon as it was practicable. Everybody was there--Lady Greenfield and her husband, who had all at once grown an old man, his wife having stopped his fox-hunting long ago--and Miss Polly, and all the Croftons, far and near, and such Nugents as could be picked up handily; and finally, all the great people of the county, to glorify our hero. I cannot tell by what ingenious process of badgering Alice had been driven out of her retirement, and produced that night in the Waterflag drawing-room. I will not even guess what cruel sisterly sarcasms and suggestions of what people might say, had supplemented the sisterly coaxing which were, no doubt, ineffectual; but there Alice was--there she stood by the side of Clara’s dazzling toilette and rosy tints, pale and clouded, in her brown silk dress--her _old_ brown silk dress, made in a fashion which “went out” at least three years ago; without a single ornament about her anywhere--her hair braided as plainly as though she had just come down-stairs to make the tea, and superintend the breakfast table--not even the pretty bouquet of delicate flowers at her breast, which made so pretty a substitute for jewels on little Kate’s white dress--not a bracelet nor a ring--nothing to diversify the entire plainness of her appearance, nor a single sparkle or gleam of reflection on neck, finger, or arm. I confess that I was both annoyed and disappointed. Instead of doing her womanly utmost to look well and young, as became her, Alice had exhausted all her perverse pains in making a dowdy of herself. I cannot say she had succeeded. It was the crisis of her life, and mind and heart were alike full of movement and agitation. She could not prevent the excitement of her