In the comfortable apartment which was made the family sitting-room, where Miss Brabazon might usually be found by anybody who wanted her, sat a young lady on this same afternoon. A laughing, saucy, wilful girl of thirteen, with short petticoats, and wavy brown hair hanging down. It was Miss Rose Brabazon. Dr. Brabazon had married two wives and lost them both: he had several older children, all out in the world now, but this was the only young one, and spoilt accordingly. That is, all out in the world save his eldest daughter, whom you will see presently. Miss Rose was supposed to be at her studies. Sundry exercise-books were before her on the square table, covered with its handsome green cloth, in the middle of the room; in point of fact, she was inditing a private letter, and taking recreative trips to the window between whiles,—a large, pleasant window, looking out on the gymnasium-ground, with a view of the Hampstead and Highgate hills in the far distance. At least seventeen of the boys were madly in love with Miss Rose, and Miss Rose reciprocated the compliment to a large proportion of them. The door opened, and Miss Brabazon came in: a middle-sized, capable, practical young woman of thirty, with a kind, good, sensible face. She was the prop and stay of the house; looking after everything; to the well-being of the large household, to the comfort of her father and of the boys, and to the education of Rose. Her dark hair was plainly braided on her face, and she wore a dress of some soft blue material, with lace collar and cuffs. Crossing over to a side table, she laid down a book she was carrying, and then looked at the address of two letters in her hand, which had just been given her by the postman as she crossed the hall. Miss Rose, all signs of everything unorthodox hidden away, was diligently bending over her studies. "Is that exercise not done yet, Rose?" "It is so very difficult, Emma." "You have been idling away your time again, I fear. Have you practised?" continued Miss Brabazon, glancing half round at the piano. "Not yet, Emma." "Have you learnt your French?" "I've not looked at it." "What _have_ you been doing?" Miss Rose Brabazon lifted her pretty face, and shook back her wavy hair from her laughing blue eyes. "I thought you'd perhaps give me holiday this afternoon, as you were so much occupied upstairs with Lord Shrewsbury and his mother." "Now, Rose, you knew better. And be so kind as to call the boys by their right names. I wish you'd be a steady child!" Rose laughed. "Sir Simon Orville's here, Emma. I saw him at the study window just now with papa." "Of course! That's the way you get your lessons done, Rose." Miss Rose tossed her pen-wiper into the air and caught it again. She had the peculiar faculty of never listening to reproofs. At least, of listening to profit. "Whom are those letters for, Emma." "Not for you," answered Emma. "You may put the books away now, and go and wash your hands. It is tea-time."