"And now I suppose you have come to London to go into all the gaieties here?" said Margaret, for the first time taking her part in the conversation. She looked somewhat grimly at the long-leggit lad. He was brown from his sea-voyaging, and too roughly clad for these fashionable precincts. "This is just the height of the season, and you'll no doubt intend to turn yourself into a butterfly, like the rest of the young men." "I am not very like a butterfly now," said Philip, suddenly awakened to the imperfections of his dress. "Oh! but that is soon mended," said Miss Jean, always kind; "you will have to go to your tailor, and you will soon be as fine as anybody." Philip grew fiery red with sudden shame and dismay. He cast a glance at Lilias, and read the same truth in her eyes. Except Jean, who had first found him out, nobody was very glad to see him in his sea-going tweeds. It had not struck him before. He muttered something about making himself decent, and left them hurriedly, striding along out of sight under the trees. Miss Margaret smiled as he disappeared. "Well," she said, drawing a long breath, "that is a good riddance; and I wish the rest of our country friends were got rid of as easy. I think you might remember, Jean, that to entertain the like of Philip Stormont is not what we came to London for." Jean was magnanimous. She had it on her lips to say something of the failure so far of their expedition to London, but it died away before it was spoken. As for Margaret, she had forgotten the downfall of last night. Her mind was labouring with schemes for advancement. All her faculties were nerved to the struggle. But, alas! what are faculties when it is friends you want? To repulse Philip was a matter of instinct; but to open the doors of the great houses was another affair. And, even when that was done, all was not done; for what would be the good of taking Lilias to a great ball unless there was some prospect of getting her partners when she was there? Margaret had determined that she would accomplish both--but how? To see a worthy human being struggling in the face of difficulties is a great sight, especially when he (or she) struggles not for himself, but for those he loves. Nothing can be more entirely true, or indeed more completely a truism; but when the difficulties are those of getting an invitation to a ball, and, when there, partners for your charge, the world may laugh, but the struggle is no less arduous. A mother in such a case gets contempt, if not reproach, instead of any just appreciation; but a sister may perhaps secure a gentler verdict. Such love was in the object, if it was not otherwise very worthy; and if there was much pride too, it was of so natural a kind. She shook off Philip as she would have shaken off a thorn that clung to her dress; but still he was another element of discomfort. She wanted no long-leggit lad to attach himself to her party, and less now than ever--for who could tell what effect the