"They are like their master, eh, Edna?" returned Richard good-humoredly. "Mother, shall I give you some ham? What time do you mean to bring Miss Lambert to the lower meadow, Edna? We shall be carrying this evening." "Oh, you need not expect us at all," returned Edna, to Bessie's disappointment. "I quite forgot the Atherton's are coming this afternoon, to practice for to-morrow." "I thought Miss Lambert wanted to see us make hay," observed Richard, looking at Bessie as he spoke; but she replied hastily: "Not if your sister has other plans, Mr. Sefton, thank you all the same; I would rather do as she wishes." "Yes, and you are fond of lawn tennis, are you not? We have a garden party to-morrow, and you ought to practice, you see. I want you to know the Athertons; they are such nice girls, Florence especially; plenty of go in them, and no nonsense." "Yes, Florence is a sweet girl," assented her mother. "Mrs. Atherton is a sad invalid, and they are such devoted daughters. Edna, it is your day for writing to Neville, is it not? I want to send a message to Mrs. Sinclair; don't you think it would be a pretty attention if you were to write to her as well? She seems very poorly again." "I am not inclined to pay pretty attentions to any one this morning," returned Edna, with a little laugh. "Bessie, can you amuse yourself while I do my duty to my _fiancé_? There are plenty of books in the morning-room, and a deliciously shady seat under that big tree." "Oh, that will be delightful," replied Bessie, to whom a book was a powerful attraction. She was some time making her selection from the well-filled bookcase, but at last fixed on some poems by Jean Ingelow, and "The Village on the Cliff," by Miss Thackeray. Bessie had read few novels in her life; Dr. Lambert disliked circulating libraries for young people, and the only novels in the house were Sir Walter Scott's and Miss Austin's, while the girls' private book shelves boasted most of Miss Yonge's, and two or three of Miss Mulock's works. Bessie had read "Elizabeth," by Miss Thackeray, at her Aunt Charlotte's house, and the charming style, the pure diction, the picturesque descriptions, and the beauty and pathos of the story made her long to read another by the same author. As Bessie retraced her steps through the hall Mac raised himself up slowly, and followed her out, and in another moment Spot and Tim flew through a side door and joined her.