“Yes, thereabouts, and Geoffrey a year younger. How they did pet her! and come down to all their old baby-plays again for her sake, till I was almost afraid that cricket and hockey would be given up and forgotten.” “And were they?” “No, no, trust boys for that. Little Mary came to be looker on, if she did not sometimes play herself. She was distressed damsel, and they knight and giant, or dragon, or I cannot tell what, though many’s the time I have laughed over it. Whatever they pleased was she: never lived creature more without will of her own.” “Never,” responded Henrietta; but that for which Mr. Langford might commend his little Mary at seven years old, did not appear so appropriate a subject of observation in Mrs. Frederick Langford, and by her own daughter. “Eh!” said her grandfather. Then answering his mental objection in another tone, “Ay, ay, no will for her own pleasure; that depends more on you than on any one else.” “I would do anything on earth for her!” said Henrietta, feeling it from the bottom of her heart. “I am sure you would, my dear,” said Mr. Langford, “and she deserves it. There are few like her, and few that have gone through so much. To think of her as she was when last she was here and to look at her now! Well, it won’t do to talk of it; but I thought when I saw her face yesterday, that I could see, as well as believe, it was all for the best for her, as I am sure it was for us.” He was interrupted just as they reached the gate by the voice of his eldest son calling “Out late, sir,” and looking round, Henrietta saw what looked in the darkness like a long procession, Uncle and Aunt Roger, and their niece, and all the boys, as far down as William, coming to the Hall for the regular Christmas dinner-party.