"She is ill," say I, lamentably, drawing a portrait in lamp-black and Indian-ink of the whole family; "we are _all_ ill--Barbara is ill!" "Poor Barbara!" "She has got a headache." "POOR Barbara!" "And I have got a heartache," say I, more for the sake of preserving the harmony of my sketch, and for making a pendant to Barbara, than because the phrase accurately describes my state. "Poor _you_!" "_Poor me, indeed!_" cry I, with emphasis, and to this day I cannot make up my mind whether the ejaculation were good grammar or no. "I have had _such_ bad news," I continue, feeling, as usual, a sensible relief from the communication of my grief. "Roger is not coming back!" "_Not at all?_" The words are the same as those employed by Mrs. Huntley; but there is much more alacrity and liveliness in the tone. "_Not at all!_" repeat I, scornfully, looking impatiently at him; "that is so likely, is not it?"--then "No not _at all_"--I continue, ironically, "he has run off with some one else--some one _black_!" (with a timely reminiscence of Bobby's happy flight of imagination). "Not till _when_, then?" "Not till after Christmas," reply I, sighing loudly, "which is almost as bad as not at all." "I knew _that_!" he says, rather petulantly; "you told me _that_ before!" "_I told you that before?_" cry I, opening my eyes, and raising my voice; "why, how could I? I only heard it myself this morning!" "It was not you, then," he says, composedly; "it must have been some one else!" "It _could_ have been no one else," retort I, hastily. "I have told no one--no one at least from whom _you_ could have heard it." "All the same, I _did_ hear it" (with a quiet persistence); "now, who could it have been?" throwing back his head, elevating his chin, and lifting his eyes in meditation to the great depths of burning red in the beech's heart, above him--"ah!"--(overtaking the recollection)--"I know!" "Who?" say I, eagerly, "not that it _could_ have been any one." "It was Mrs. Huntley!" he answers, with an air of matter-of-fact indifference. I laugh with insulting triumph. "Well, that _is_ a bad hit! What a pity that you did not fix upon some one else! I have once or twice suspected you of drawing the long bow--_now_ I am sure of it! As it happens, I have just come from Mrs. Huntley, and she knew no more about it than the babe unborn!" I am looking him full in the face, but, to my surprise, I cannot detect the expression of confusion and defeat which I anticipate. There is only the old white-anger look that I have such a happy knack of calling up on his features. "I _am_ a consummate liar!" he says, quietly, though his eyes flash. "Every one knows _that_; but, all the same, she _did_ tell me." "I do not believe a word of it!" cry I, in a fury.