may be quite sure everything is right, and that it was the most sensible thing he could do.” But it was very odd certainly, not at all explainable, and withal the most seasonable thing in the world. “I should think it quite a providence,” said Mrs Atheling, “if we only heard where he was.” CHAPTER XXIV. THE FOGGOS. The first thing to be done in the morning, before it was time even for the postman, was to hasten to Killiecrankie Lodge, and ascertain all that could be ascertained concerning Louis from Mr Foggo. This mission was confided to Agnes. It was a soft spring-like morning, and the first of Miss Willsie’s wallflowers were beginning to blow. Miss Willsie herself was walking in her little garden, scattering crumbs upon the gravel-path for the poor dingy town-sparrows, and the stray robin whom some unlucky wind had blown to Bellevue. But Miss Willsie was disturbed out of her usual equanimity; she looked a little heated, as if she had come here to recover herself, and rather frightened her little feathered acquaintances by the vehemence with which she threw them her daily dole. She smoothed her brow a little at sight of Agnes. “And what may _you_ be wanting at such an hour as this?” said Miss Willsie; “if there is one thing I cannot bide, it is to see young folk wandering about, without any errand, at all the hours of the day!” “But I have an errand,” said Agnes. “I want to ask Mr Foggo about--about Mr Louis--if he knows where he has gone!” Mr Louis--his surname, as everybody supposed--was the name by which Louis was known in Bellevue. Miss Willsie’s brow puckered with a momentary anger. “I would like to know,” said Miss Willsie, “why that monkey could not content herself with a kindly lad at home: but my brother’s in the parlour; you’ll find him there, Agnes. Keep my patience!--Foggie’s there too--the lad from America. If there’s one thing in this world I cannot endure, it’s just a young man like yon!” Miss Willsie, however, reluctantly followed her young visitor into the breakfast parlour, from which the old lady had lately made an indignant and unceremonious exit. It was a very comfortable breakfast-table, fully deserving the paragraph it obtained in those “Letters from England,” which are so interesting to all the readers of the _Mississippi Gazette_. There was a Scottish prodigality of creature comforts, and the fine ancient table-linen was white as snow, and there was a very unusual abundance, for a house of this class, of heavy old plate. Mr Foggo was getting through his breakfast methodically, with the _Times_ erected before him, and forming a screen between himself and his worshipful nephew; while Mr Foggo S. Endicott, seated with a due regard to his profile, at such an angle with the light as to exhibit fitly that noble outline, conveyed his teacup a very long way up from the table, at dignified intervals, to his handsome and expressive mouth.