"I wonder, my dear Priscilla, _why_ she married James Beresford a month afterwards." "Who can read the human heart? Perhaps it was pride drove her into that marriage,--a desire to show George Desmond how lightly she treated his desertion of her. And James was a handsome young fellow, whereas George was----" "Ugly," says Miss Penelope, with quite an amazing amount of vicious satisfaction for her. "Strikingly so," says Miss Priscilla, acquiescing most agreeably. "But then the Desmond estates mean half the county; and we _used_ to think he was the soul of honor." "It was our father's expressed desire upon his deathbed that Katherine should marry him." "Yes, yes; a desire to be held sacred. And Katherine gave her promise to our dying parent. Nothing," says Miss Priscilla, in a solemn tone, "should induce any one to break such an oath. I have often said so to the dear child. But she appeared not only willing, but anxious, to marry George Desmond. _His_ was the traitorous mind." "I daresay he has had his own punishment," says Miss Penelope, mildly. "I hope so," says Miss Priscilla, sternly. Then, with a return to sadness, "Twenty years ago it is, and now she has been a twelvemonth dead and in her quiet grave." "Oh, _don't_, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, in a broken voice, burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief. "Ah! well, well, we had better look to the future; the past has no charms for us," says Miss Priscilla, with a ghastly attempt at cheerfulness. "Let me see," referring through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles to the letter in her hand: "That the dear children have landed we know, and--h'm--yes, this very--yes, plainly, _very_ respectable person, the captain, writes to say they will be with us to-morrow." "_To-morrow!_ and that was written yesterday," says Miss Penelope, putting down her handkerchief and starting once more into life. "Why, at that rate, my dear Priscilla, they will be here _to-day_!" "Bless me! you don't mean it!" exclaims Miss Priscilla, again applying her glasses to the letter. "Monday, and this is Tuesday: yes, sure enough you are right. What a head you have, my dear Penelope!" "Oh, not at all," says Miss Penelope, flushing with pleasure at this tribute to her intellect. "To-day,--in a few hours. Now, what is to be done about the beds?" "But surely they are aired?" "Aired?--yes. They have been aired every day regularly for the past two months, ever since I first heard the children were likely to come to us. But still I am uncertain about them. I know they will want hot jars; and then the rooms, they will want flowers and many things--and----" "Can't I help you?" demands Miss Penelope, eagerly.