Rose sat on her left hand in yet another gown of strange tint and archaic outline. Rose’s gowns were legion. They were manufactured by a farmer’s daughter across the valley, under her strict and precise supervision. She was accustomed, as she boldly avowed, to shut herself up at the beginning of each season of the year for two days’ meditation on the subject. And now, thanks to the spring warmth, she was entering at last with infinite zest on the results of her April vigils. Catherine had surveyed her as she entered the room with a smile, but a smile not altogether to Rose’s taste. ‘What, another, Röschen?’ she had said with the slightest lifting of the eyebrows. ‘You never confided that to me. Did you think I was unworthy of anything so artistic?’ ‘Not at all,’ said Rose calmly, seating herself. ‘I thought you were better employed.’ But a flush flew over her transparent cheek, and she presently threw an irritated look at Agnes, who had been looking from her to Catherine with amused eyes. ‘I met Mr. Thornburgh and Mr. Elsmere driving from the station,’ Catherine announced presently; ‘at least there was a gentleman in a clerical wideawake with a portmanteau behind, so I imagine it must have been he.’ ‘Did he look promising?’ inquired Agnes. ‘I don’t think I noticed,’ said Catherine simply, but with a momentary change of expression. The sisters, remembering how she had come in upon them with that look of one ‘lifted up,’ understood why she had not noticed, and refrained from further questions. ‘Well, it is to be hoped the young man is recovered enough to stand Long Whindale festivities,’ said Rose. ‘Mrs. Thornburgh means to let them loose on his devoted head to-morrow night.’ ‘Who are coming?’ asked Mrs. Leyburn eagerly. The occasional tea parties of the neighborhood were an unfailing excitement to her, simply because, by dint of the small adornings, natural to the occasion, they showed her daughters to her under slightly new aspects. To see Catherine, who never took any thought for her appearance, forced to submit to a white dress, a line of pearls round the shapely throat, a flower in the brown hair, put there by Rose’s imperious fingers; to sit in a corner well out of draughts, watching the effect of Rose’s half-fledged beauty, and drinking in the compliments of the neighborhood on Rose’s playing or Agnes’s conversation, or Catherine’s practical ability--these were Mrs. Leyburn’s passions, and a tea-party always gratified them to the full. ‘Mamma asks as if really she wanted an answer,’ remarked Agnes dryly. ‘Dear mother, can’t you by now make up a tea-party at the Thornburghs out of your head?’ ‘The Seatons?’ inquired Mrs. Leyburn.