"Yes," said Mr. Busby looking at her. "Ladies like it. Wouldn't you like it?" "I should not like it at all," said Rotha colouring with a little excitement. "I don't mind your saying so, Mr. Busby; you have a right to say anything you like to me; but if any stranger said it, I should think he was very impertinent." "You don't know much yet," said Mr. Busby. "There is small danger that Rotha will ever be troubled with that sort of impertinence," said Mrs. Busby, with that peculiar air of her head, which always meant that she thought a good deal more than she spoke out at the minute. "Maybe," returned her husband; "but she is going to deserve it, I can tell you. She'll be handsomer than ever Antoinette will." Which remark seemed to Rotha peculiarly unlucky for her just that day. Mrs. Busby reddened with displeasure though she held her tongue. Antoinette was not capable of such forbearance. "Papa!" she said, breaking out into tears, "that is very unkind of you!" "Well, don't snivel," said her father. "You are pretty enough, if you keep a smooth face; but don't you suppose there are other people in the world handsomer? Be sensible." "It is difficult not to be hurt, Mr. Busby," said his wife, pressing her lips together. "Mamma!" cried Antoinette in a very injured tone, "he called me 'pretty'?" "Aint you?" said her father, becoming a little provoked. "I thought you knew you were. But Rotha is going to be a beauty. It is no injury to you, my child." "You seem to forget it may be an injury to Rotha, Mr. Busby." Whether Mr. Busby forgot it, or whether he did not care, he made no reply to this suggestion. "I _never_ tell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on severely. "Well, I don't think she will. Not her style." "Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter. "Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette's?" asked the mother. "Skin isn't everything. My dear, don't be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie's a pretty little girl, and I am glad of it; but don't you go to making a fool of her by making her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you; but that wasn't what I married you for." Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice, for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self- command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby, and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible. "What's the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don't be silly. I don't believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."