"Why, what is this at this time of night?" says Miss Priscilla, who is plainly under the impression that, once the lamps are lighted, it is verging on midnight. She takes the envelope from Timothy, and gazes at the huge regimental crest upon it with a judicial expression. "A sojer brought it, miss. Yes, indeed, ma'am. A-hossback he come, all the way from the Barracks at Clonbree." Redcoats at Rossmoyne are a novelty, and are regarded by the peasantry with mixed feelings of admiration and contempt. I think the contempt is stronger with Timothy than the admiration. "From the Barracks?" says Miss Priscilla, slowly, turning and twisting the letter between her fingers, while Monica's heart beats rapidly. It is, it _must_ be the invitation; and what will be the result of it? "Yes, indeed, miss. I asked him what brought him at this hour, ma'am; but he took me mighty short wid his answer, so I give up me questions." Never having been able during fifty years to make up his mind whether his mistresses should be addressed as maidens or matrons, Timothy has compromised matters by putting a "miss" and a "ma'am" into every sentence he dedicates to them. "Ah, an invitation from Captain Cobbett for Friday next--um--um--four to seven--um--um. All of us invited, even Kit," says Miss Priscilla, in a decidedly lively tone. "Me! am I asked?" cries Kit, excitedly. "Yes, indeed, you are specially mentioned. Very nice and attentive, I must say, of those young men, particularly when we have not shown them any kindness _as yet_. I thought that Mr. Ryde a very superior young fellow, with none of the discourteous antipathy to _age_ that disfigures the manners of the youth of the present day. Penelope, my dear, perhaps you had better indite the answer to this. Yours is the pen of a ready writer." "Very well," says Miss Penelope, rising slowly--Oh! _so_ slowly! thinks Monica--and going towards the davenport. "Is the soldier outside, Timothy?" asks Miss Priscilla. "Yes, miss. He said he wanted a bit of writing from ye for the captain." "It is a long ride. Take him downstairs, Timothy, and give him some beer, while Miss Penelope prepares a reply." "Begging your pardon, miss, and with due respect to ye, ma'am, but he's that stiff in his manners, an' tight in his clothes, I doubt if he'd condescend to enter the kitchen." "Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, with much displeasure, "you have been having hot words with this stranger. What is it all about?" "There's times, miss, as we all knows, when a worm will turn, and though I'm not a worm, ma'am, no more am I a coward, an' a red coat don't cover more flesh than a black; an' I'm an ould man, Miss Priscilla, to be called a buffer!" It is apparent to every one that Timothy is nearly in tears. "A buffer?" repeats Miss Priscilla, with dignity blended with disgust: she treats the word cautiously, as one might something noxious. "What is a buffer?"