But seldom has Mr. Brandon missed attending divine service from the auspicious day, two and twenty years ago, when, at the tender age of three years, being, Eutychus-like, overcome with sleep, he fell down with much clamour from a high bench, and raised a mountainous red lump on his baby forehead, coming into contact with the hard pew floor: "And his head, as he tumbled, went knicketty-knock, Like a pebble in Carisbrook well." Robert feels the weight of public opinion to be heavy, but he sticks like a man to what he said. "Not to-day, mother, I think. Esther said she would be coming in by-and-by to say good-bye to you all, and, as it is her last day, I thought I might as well have as much as I could of her." "What _do_ you mean, Bob? Is the girl going to die to-night?" inquires Miss Brandon, perking up her little tow-coloured head sharply. "God forbid!" he cries, with a hasty shudder; "don't suggest anything so frightful; but she is off to-morrow for a week or ten days on a visit to some friends." "Going away without mentioning a word about it!" "Going away _now!_" These two sentences shoot out with simultaneous velocity from two mouths. "Are you surprised at her not telling _us_ where she is going? Does she ever tell _us_ anything? Does she make _us_ her confidants!" subjoins Miss Bessy, with mild spite. Spite is permissible on the Sabbath, though hot potatoes and novels are not. "She did not know herself till yesterday," says Bob, briefly, cutting away rather viciously at the beef. "But who are these sudden friends that have sprung up all at once? What are their names? Where do they live? Tell us all about them, dear boy," says the old woman, gently, seeing that her son is chafed. "Their names are Sir Thomas and Lady Gerard; they are old friends of the Cravens' father, and they live in ----shire; that is all I know about them." "A steady-going old couple, I suppose? Will not that be rather dull for a little gay thing like Esther?" "There is a girl of about her own age, I believe, a ward of Sir Thomas's." "A ward!--oh!" "And also a son." "A son! o--h!" "Well, why should not there be a son? What harm is there in that?" asks Robert, raising his voice a little in irritation. "No harm whatever! Much better thing than a daughter! Can push his own way in the world. Not that I know in the least what you are talking about," cries a young, saucy voice, which, with the little sleek, dark head it belongs to, appears uninvited at the door at this juncture. "Oh! I see you are all at dinner, so I'll stay outside till you have finished; it is so horrible to be watched when one is eating, isn't it? I hate it myself." And the head and the voice disappear again as quickly as they came.