"She is a kind and gracious lady," said Mr. Wycherly, "but you mustn’t expect everybody to be like Mrs. Methuen." "I don’t want them to be like her. I want them to be different; but I want some more people to come soon. I know the milkman, of course, and the butcher and two postmen (we’d only one in Burnhead), but that’s not enough. You see they don’t come in and have a crack. The butcher’s an awfully nice man. I wish you knew him, Guardie. Why don’t they ever come in?" "I expect they are too busy. As it is, it seems to me that some people’s meat must arrive very late if you have already found time to discover the butcher’s amiable qualities during his morning visit." "You should hear him whistle," Edmund persisted. "I’d give anything to whistle like him." Mr. Wycherly did not answer. His mental attitude with regard to the butcher’s musical efforts was coldly unsympathetic. "Why do you never whistle, Guardie?" "I don’t feel the smallest desire to whistle." "But, _why_ don’t you?" Just at this moment Mrs. Dew appeared bearing a tray with a visiting card upon it, while behind her came Montagu, breathless with excitement, to announce that "a lady and a gentleman and a wee girl were waiting in the parlour to see Mr. Wycherly." On the card were the names of "Mr. and Mrs. William Wycherly." "There, Edmund," said Mr. Wycherly, "you’ve got your wish. Here are visitors, and one of them is an old friend," and looking really pleased he hastened downstairs to the parlour, followed by the boys. Seated in the deep window-seat was a tall young lady with fair hair; beside her was a little girl, and a gentleman was standing on the hearthrug. As Mr. Wycherly came in the lady crossed the room towards him holding out both her hands. She seemed extraordinarily glad to see him, and he held the friendly hands in his for quite a long time, while she laughed and blushed and introduced her husband. Then she turned to the boys: "Do neither of you remember me? Six years is a long time—but you might, Montagu?" "Weren’t you bonnie Margaret?" Montagu asked shyly. "She is bonnie Margaret," said Mr. Wycherly, "and this is my nephew." "Nobody is taking any notice of me," said a clear, high voice, and the handshaking group in the middle of the room turned to look at the little figure standing all lonely in the window-seat. "That is our daughter Herrick," laughed Mrs. Wycherly; "a very important person—quite unused to be overlooked."