“He's at least two hours away, now,” said she, addressing her eldest daughter. “Very nearly. It wanted only a few minutes to eleven when Mr. Cashel sent for him.” “I hope, Caroline, that he will remember what is due, not to himself,--I cannot say that,--but to me, on this occasion. It is impossible that Cashel can avoid the acknowledgment of his attentions; nothing but your father's incompetence could permit of his escape.” “It's too late, mamma,--altogether too late. When Aunt Fanny--” “Don't speak of her; don't even mention her name in my presence,” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent of bitter anguish. “I was merely going to observe, mamma, that her conduct has involved us in such ridicule, that reparation of the mischief is out of the question.” “I wish we were away; I cannot bear to stay another day here,” said Olivia, with a deep sigh. “If Aunt--” “Don't call her your aunt, Caroline,--I forbid it; she is no sister of mine; she has been the evil genius of our family all her life long. But for her and her wiles I had never been married to your father! Just fancy what a position you might have had now, but for that cruel mishap.” The problem, to judge from Miss Kennyfeck's face, seemed difficult to solve; but she prudently held her peace. “You may rest assured they know it all below stairs. That odious Lady Janet has told it in every dressing-room already.” “And Linton, mamma,” said Caroline, whose sisterly feelings were merged in most impartial justice,--“only fancy Linton imitating Aunt Fanny's benediction with uplifted hands and eyes. I almost think I see him before me, and hear the insolent shouts of laughter on every side.” “Give me the aromatic vinegar!” cried Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an accent like suffocation. “I think there 's some one at the door. Come in,” cried Miss Kennyfeck; and a very smartly dressed groom entered with a note. “Is there any answer to this?” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, listlessly, who thought it one of the habitual invitations to some excursion in a carriage or on horseback. “Yes, my Lady,” said the servant, bowing. The title sounded pleasantly, and Mrs. K.'s features relaxed as she broke the seal. Ah, Mrs. Kennyfeck, indolently and carelessly as you hold that small epistle in your fingers, it cost him who wrote it many a puzzling thought, and many a fair sheet of foolscap. Critics assure us that style is no criterion of the labor of composition, and that Johnson's rounded periods ran flippantly off the pen, while the seemingly careless sentences of Rousseau cost days and nights of toil. The note was from Sir Harvey Upton, and neither by its caligraphy nor grammar shed lustre on the literary genius of his corps. It went thus:--