"Well, then, I should like to be able to have some nice parties--dancing and theatricals, and that sort of thing, for Barbara--father will never hardly let us have a soul here--and to buy her some pretty dresses to set off her beauty--" "Yes?" "And then I should like to have a nice, large, cheerful house, where mother could come and stay with me, for two or three months at a time, and get _clear_ away from the worries of house-keeping and--" the tyranny of father, I am about to add, but pull myself up with a jerk, and substitute lamely and stammeringly "and--and--others." "Any thing else?" "I should not at all mind a donkey-carriage for Tou Tou, but I shall not _insist_ upon that." He is smiling broadly now. The shade has fled away, and only sunshine remains. "And what for yourself? you seem to have forgotten yourself!" "For myself!" I echo, in surprise, "I have been telling you--you cannot have been listening--all these things are for myself." Again he has turned his face half away. "I hope you will get your wish," he says shortly and yet heartily. I laugh. "That is so probable, is not it? I am so likely to fall in with a rich young man of weak intellect who is willing to marry all the whole six of us, for that is what he would have to do, and so I should explain to him." Sir Roger is looking at me again with an odd smile--not disagreeable in any way--not at all hold-cheap, or as if he were sneering at me for a simpleton, but merely _odd_. "And you think," he says, "that when he hears what is expected of him he will withdraw?" Again I laugh heartily and rather loudly, for the idea tickles me, and, in a large family, one gets into the habit of raising one's voice, else one is not heard. "I am so sadly sure that he will never come forward, that I have never taken the trouble to speculate as to whether, if he did, my greediness would make him retire again." No answer. "Now that I come to think of it, though," continue I, after a pause, "I have no manner of doubt that he would." Apparently Sir Roger is tired of the subject of my future prospects, for he drops it. We have left the kitchen-garden--have passed through the flower-garden--have reached the hall-door. I am irresolutely walking up the stone steps that mount to it, not being able to make up my mind as to whether or no I should make some sort of farewell observation to my companion, when his voice follows me. It seems to me to have a dissuasive inflection. "Are you going in?" "Well, yes," I answer uncertainly, "I suppose so." He looks at his watch. "It is quite early yet--not near luncheon-time--would it bore you very much to take a turn in the park? I think" (with a smile) "that you are quite honest enough to say so if it would: or, if you did not, I should read it on your face." "Would you?" say I, a little piqued. "I do not think you would: I assure you that my face can tell stories, at a pinch, as well as its neighbor." "Well, _would_ it bore you?"