"Is Hatty yet in Charles Street? We have had but one letter from the child in all this time, and that was short and told nothing. I hope you see her often, and can give us some tidings. Squire Bracewell writ to your father a fortnight gone that he was weary of dwelling alone, and as the Prince's army is in retreat, he thinks it now safe to have the girls home. If this be so, we shall soon have Hatty here. I have writ to her, by your father's wish, that she is not to tarry behind." I cried aloud when I came to this: "The Prince in retreat from Derby! Uncle Charles, do you know anything of it? Sure, it can never be true!" "Nonsense!" he made answer. "Some silly rumour, no doubt." "But my Uncle Bracewell writ it to my Aunt Kezia, and he dwells within fifteen miles," I said. My Uncle Charles looked much disturbed. "I must go forth and see about this," answered he. "With your catarrh, Mr Desborough!" cried my Aunt Dorothea. For above a week my Uncle Charles has not ventured from the door, having a bad catarrh. "My catarrh must take care of itself," he made answer. "This is serious news. Dobson, have you heard aught about the Prince being in retreat?" Dobson, who was setting down the chocolate-pot, looked up and smiled. "Yes, Sir, we heard that yesterday." "You idiot! why did you not tell me?" cried my Uncle Charles. "In retreat! I cannot believe it." "Run to the coffee-house, Dobson," said Grandmamma, "and ask what news they have this morning." So Dobson went off, and has not yet returned. My Aunt Dorothea laughs all to scorn, but my Uncle Charles is uneasy, and I am sure Grandmamma believes the report. It is dreadful if it is true. Are we to sit down under another thirty years of foreign oppression? ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Before Dobson could get back, Mrs Newton came in her chair. She is a very stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up the stairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little Dutch pug after, which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. Her two daughters came in behind her. "Oh, my dear--Mrs Desborough! My--dear creature! This is--the horridest news! We must--go back to our--red ribbons and--black cockades! Could I ever have--thought it! Aren't you--perfectly miserable? Dear, dear me!" "Ma is miserable because red does not suit her," said Miss Marianne. "I can wear it quite well, so I don't need to be." "Marianne!" said her sister, laughing. "Well, you know, Theresa, you don't care two pins whether the Prince wins or loses. Who does?" "The Prince and my Lord Tullibardine," said Miss Newton. "Oh, of course, those who looked to the Prince to make their fortunes are disappointed enough. I don't." "I rather thought Mr Crossland did," said Miss Newton, with a mischievous air. "Well, I hope there are other people in the world beside Mr Crossland," said Miss Marianne.