‘Edward did not tell us that. Something horrid, I dare say. Smith, or Jones, or Johnson--a name to dispel all pleasant illusions.’ ‘Here comes Mr. Sampson.’ ‘Yes, on the horse he drives in his dogcart. Could you believe, Laura, that a horse could support existence with so much bone and so little flesh?’ This was all Laura heard about the expected guest at the Vicarage, but poor Celia was in a flutter of wondering anticipation for the next two days. She took particular pains to make her brother’s den attractive, yet sighed as she reflected how much of the stranger’s brief visit would be spent within the closed doors of that masculine snuggery. ‘I wonder whether he is fond of tea?’ she mused, when she had given the last heightening touch to the multifarious frivolities of the poet’s study; ‘and whether I shall be allowed to join them at kettledrum. Very likely he is one of those dreadfully mannish men who hate to talk to girls, and look glum whenever they’re forced to endure women’s society. A doctor? scientific, perhaps, and devoted to dry bones. Edward calls him handsome; but I dare say that was only said in order to prepossess us in his favour, and secure a civil reception for him.’ Thus, in maiden meditation, mused the damsel on that January evening when her brother and her brother’s friend were expected. The omnibus from the ‘George’ was to bring them from the station, and that omnibus would be due at a quarter past seven. It was now striking seven by the deep-toned church clock; a solemn chime that had counted out Celia’s hours ever since she could remember. She hardly knew time or herself out of earshot of that grave old clock. ‘Seven,’ she exclaimed, ‘and my hair anyhow.’ She slipped off to her room, lighted her dressing-table candles, and took up her hand mirror, the better to survey the edifice of frizzy little curls which crowned her small, neatly-shaped head. ‘Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,’ she sang gaily, smiling at herself in the glass, as she put her pet ringlets in their proper places, and smoothed the corner of an eyebrow with her little finger. ‘What a blessing not to be obliged to powder, and to have lips that are naturally red!’ she said to herself. ‘It might almost reconcile one to be buried alive in a village.’ She put on her prettiest gown in honour of the visitor. It was by no means an elaborate costume. There were no intricacies of style, no artistic combinations of material. Celia’s best indoor gown was only a dark-green French merino, brightened by a good deal of ribbon, artfully disposed in unexpected bows and knots, and floating sash-ends. Happily, the colour suited Celia’s complexion, and the soft fabric fell in graceful folds upon her slender figure. Altogether Celia felt herself looking nice when she put out her candles and ran downstairs.