“How could I!” mimicked Horace. “How could I what? Why, you little goose, when shall I make you understand that it is always better to take (metaphorically speaking, of course) the bull by the horns? You ought to know _that_ by this time; but, as you don’t, I can only repeat what I have said fifty times before--that, what with your grimaces and Rhoda’s tears, you are about the two silliest young women in Christendom.--Now, Roe dear,” he went on, addressing his eldest sister in a tone of mock displeasure which, together with the quaint name which he had bestowed upon the quiet and slightly sentimental girl, set Kate off--no unusual occurrence--into what Horace called a fit of the giggles,--“now, Roe dear, what in the world are you crying about now?” “I wasn’t crying, Horace,” said Rhoda. She was rather a pretty pale-faced girl, whose tears--for her nerves were weak--came at very slight provocation to her eyelids. She had wiped one furtively away while her brother began to “chaff” her about this well-known propensity, and then was quite ready to say tremulously: “I wasn’t crying, only everything seems so uncomfortable; and it is so odd, not knowing when Arthur is to be married. I believe he has told you! Now, has he, Horace? Don’t be ill-natured;” and both the girls at once set to work to kiss and coax him. “Paws off!” cried Horace, laughing. “No, then, he hasn’t--upon my word, he hasn’t. There! I hate not knowing the truth as much as you do; and I only wish he was to be married next week.” “And why?” Kate eagerly exclaimed; “you usen’t to like--” “_Usen’t!_ What grammar! You’ll want Miss Bates back again if you can’t speak your mother-tongue better than that.” “Never mind my mother-tongue,” Kate began impatiently. “I want to be told--” “You want to be told a thousand things that you’ve no business to know. You are both as curious as a couple of magpies; but you may chatter till midnight without getting a word out of me. I’m off to the stable for a smoke; so you needn’t bother me any more.” In spite of the cheerful air and janty manner with which he endeavoured to conceal his troubles, Horace Vavasour did not smoke on that especial evening “the pipe of contentment;” nor could the corn-bin on which he sat be in the smallest degree considered as typical of that well-known “carpet of hope” on which the lethargic Turk is supposed to take his ease.