There was no mistaking those laughing gray eyes, though I think if I had never looked at him some instinct would have told me that it was Jack. How could I be dignified with the crested hen tucked under my arm? I tried to pull myself up; but the miserable bird seemed to think that it had found a protector at last, for it began to cluck with redoubled vehemence. I had to give it up in despair, and burst into a laugh, while Jack did the same. “How are you, Nell?” he said, holding out his hand; and then, in an astonished voice, “Why, you’re not a bit the same as when I saw you last!” “Well, I hadn’t a hen under my arm then,” said I. “Who would have thought that little Nell would have developed into a woman?” said Jack, still lost in amazement. “You didn’t expect me to develop into a man, did you?” said I, in high indignation; and then, suddenly dropping all reserve, “We’re awfully glad you’ve come, Jack. Never mind going up to the house. Come and help us to catch that Bantam cock.” “Right you are,” said Jack, in his old cheery way, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon my countenance. “Come on!” and away the three of us scampered across the park, with poor Sol aiding and abetting with the scissors and the prisoner in the rear. Jack was a very crumpled-looking visitor by the time he paid his respects to the mother that afternoon, and my dreams of dignity and reserve were scattered to the winds. * * * * * We had quite a party at Hatherley House that May. There were Bob, and Sol, and Jack Hawthorne, and Mr. Nicholas Cronin; then there were Miss Maberly, and Elsie, and mother, and myself. On an emergency we could always muster half a dozen visitors from the houses round, so as to have an audience when charades or private theatricals were attempted. Mr. Cronin, an easy-going athletic young Oxford man, proved to be a great acquisition, having wonderful powers of organization and execution. Jack was not nearly as lively as he used to be, in fact we unanimously accused him of being in love; at which he looked as silly as young men usually do on such occasions, but did not attempt to deny the soft impeachment. “What shall we do to-day?” said Bob one morning. “Can anybody make a suggestion?” “Drag the pond,” said Mr. Cronin. “Haven’t men enough,” said Bob; “anything else?” “We must get up a sweepstakes for the Derby,” remarked Jack. “O, there’s plenty of time for that. It isn’t run till the week after next. Anything else?” “Lawn-tennis,” said Sol, dubiously. “Bother lawn-tennis!” “You might make a picnic to Hatherley Abbey,” said I. “Capital!” cried Mr. Cronin. “The very thing. What do you think, Bob?” “First-class,” said my brother, grasping eagerly at the idea. Picnics are very dear to those who are in the first stage of the tender passion. “Well, how are we to go, Nell?” asked Elsie.