“Yes. And you think Mr. Faradeane had no thought of our amusement and applause--yours and Mr. Bradstone’s and mine?” she asked, with her rare smile. “No; I think he exerted himself for the squire and the girls. It’s just like his good nature.” “You appear to have become very intimate with him in a short time,” said Olivia. Poor Bertie colored a deep red, which the darkness luckily concealed. “Well, you see, he’s the sort of man you do learn to know quickly; so--so frank.” “Frank!” with a smile. “Well,” he stammered, “not exactly frank, but----” Olivia laughed. “Never mind,” she said. “What you mean to say is that you admire him very much, and that, like papa, you have ‘taken to him.’” “That’s it,” said Bertie, with a sigh of relief. “So the squire likes him, does he? Well, I’m not surprised. I hope they’ll be great friends. He’ll cheer the squire up, and he wants it, dear old squire.” Olivia turned to him with anxious eagerness. “Then you have noticed that papa has been dull and low-spirited lately?” she said. “Yes; I--I don’t think he has been quite up to his usual form. He looks bothered and worried about something,” said Bertie. “But don’t be uneasy, Olivia; it can’t be anything serious. What could trouble him?” Olivia looked vacantly at the feathers nodding on Aunt Amelia’s hat. “I don’t know of anything,” she said, thoughtfully. “No, there can be nothing. What is Mr. Faradeane going to recite to-night?” she asked, after a pause. “I haven’t the least idea,” replied Bertie. “He has said nothing to me about it. Whatever it is will sure to be well done, you may depend. Here we are.” The entertainment had evidently been regarded as an event of some importance, for there was a tolerably long string of carriages at the door, and Olivia, as she entered the schoolroom on Bertie’s arm, saw that the place was crammed. Their appearance was the signal for a burst of clapping and stamping, and passing up a narrow lane between the chairs, they made their way to the platform amid a hearty welcome. Aunt Amelia, “all becks and nods and wreathed smiles,” ushered them into chairs--all except Faradeane, who took his seat in a corner among the audience--and the performance was proceeded with. It was like the usual village entertainment. There was the church choir with a part song--sung by half-a-dozen girls and young men, the former all giggles, the latter all hands and feet. Then the vicar, with a vacuous smile, obliged with a solo on the concertina--by no means badly played; and Faradeane would have enjoyed it if the worthy man had not opened his mouth at all the high notes, and frowned terribly at all the low ones. Then a pale young lady sang a sentimental ballad in a voice which only reached the first two rows of chairs; and, following her, a pale young gentleman, with narrow shoulders, growled out “The Village Blacksmith.”