Margaret smiled. She was not accustomed to laugh. “You! Absurd! do you think he would write to you? what conceit!” she observed, with a gesture of contempt. What other feeling should she entertain for a sister who possessed merely the cardinal virtues, and was utterly deficient in an appreciation of worldly pomps and vanities? At this part of the conversation, there was a tap at the door of the apartment; it opened at the same moment, and an individual, attired in a suit of black of the most approved court dress cut, advanced into the room. The eyes of the family were turned upon him, but he scarcely appeared to be disposed to collapse under that honour. His neck was garnished with an unexceptionable cravat, which was arranged with such precision that it seemed to be wrought in alabaster and carved elaborately. His wig--for as he confessed to admiring _confreres_, he had dispensed with his “own ’air”--looked as though it had been subjected to a severe storm of whitewash and had been violently brushed. He approached his master, and, bending over him, said, in a confidential manner, yet with a gesture of grave but humble deference. “Thet pesson is come, sir!” “Who?--what person?” inquired Mr. Grahame with the air of one who denied the right of any “person” to seek an audience with him. “The pesson concerning which you gave me hin-structions, sir--I asked ’im into the libree, sir.” “Into my library, man?” cried Mr. Grahame, rising up, angrily. “Pray what does the fellow mean? How dare you ask any ‘person’ into my library without my instructions to that effect?” “He said he were Mr. Chewkle, sir, and if you please to remember”---- The face of Mr. Grahame turned as pale as death, and then changed to an intense crimson. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!” he cried hurriedly, altering his tone; “return to him--say I will come to him immediately.” The man bowed, and quitted the room. Mr. Grahame walked to the window and looked out into the sunlight. It lay upon the grassy lawn, upon the sloping meads, upon the waving trees, like gleaming gold dust. The soft breeze made the leaves flutter merrily, birds darted to and fro in the clear air, singing gaily, and brilliantly attired ladies and children moved over the open places in the broad park, animated by the beauty of the scene, and the glory of the sunshine. Mr. Grahame looked distastefully upon it, it ill-assorted with the feelings at war within his breast, and he turned from it with an impatient exclamation. He set his teeth together, drew a long breath, and, with his features more pallid than usual, strode out of the room. Mrs. Grahame--too much occupied with visions of her own dignity, when she thought at all, which was not often--took no notice of the disturbed manner of her husband. If she had seen it, she would not have credited the evidence of her own eyes. A Grahame disturbed or agitated, the thing was impossible.