“Not an hour, not a minute, sir. I mean,” added he, ashamed of his violence, “I have not an instant to spare.” “You 'll scarcely profit by leaving us this morning,” resumed Sir William. “The torrents between this and Massa are all full, and perfectly impassable.” “Pray accept Sir William's wise counsels, sir,” said she, with the sweetest of all smiles. A stern look, and a muttered something inaudible, was all his reply. “What a dreary servitude must political life be, when one cannot bestow a passing hour upon society!” said she, plaintively. “Mr. Ogden could tell us that the rewards are worthy of the sacrifices,” said Sir William, blandly. “Are they better than the enjoyments of leisure, the delights of friendship, and the joys of home?” asked she, half earnestly. “By Heaven, madam!” cried Ogden, and then stopped; when Sir William broke in,-- “Mrs. Morris is too severe upon public men. They are rarely called on to make such sacrifices as she speaks of.” While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front of the house, where Agincourt was standing between May and Clara, holding a hand of each. “Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly. “Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly. “May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You will surely take a glass of wine with us?” “Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof with this woman,” muttered he, below his breath; but her quick ears caught the words, and she whispered,-- “An unkind speech, George,--most unkind!” While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells of the girls and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the carriage, and thrown himself deeply back into a corner. Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and looked calmly, steadfastly at him. “Won't you say good-bye?” said she, softly. A look of insulting contempt was all his answer. “Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here's my hand.” And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him. “Fiend,--not woman!” was his muttered expression as he turned away. “And a pleasant journey,” said she, as if finishing a speech; while turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt: “Yes, to be sure, you may take a boy's privilege, and give me a kiss at parting,” said she; while the youth, blushing a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission. “There they go,” said Sir William, as the horses rattled down the avenue; “and a finer boy and a grumpier companion it has rarely been my lot to meet with. A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of yours.” “I knew him formerly,” said she, coldly. “I can't say I ever liked him.” “I remember his name,” said Sir William, in a sort of hesitating way; “there was some story or other about him,--either his wife ran away, or he eloped with somebody's wife.”