"Catch him stopping away if Charlotte Pain goes?" went on Reginald. "Yesterday I was at the pastry-cook's, having a tuck-out with that shilling old Crosse gave me, and Mr. George and Miss Charlotte came in. I heard a little." "What did you hear?" breathed Maria. She could not help the question: any more than she could help the wild beating of her heart at the boy's words. "I did not catch it all," said Reginald. "It was about Scotland, though, and what they should do when they were there. Mrs. Verrall's carriage came up then, and he put her into it. An out-and-out flirt is George Godolphin!" Grace Hastings threw her keen dark eyes upon Maria. "Do not let him flirt with _you_," she said in a marked tone. "You like him; I do not. I never thought George Godolphin worth his salt." "That's just Grace!" exclaimed Isaac. "Taking her likes and dislikes! and for no cause, or reason, but her own crotchets and prejudices. He is the nicest fellow going, is George Godolphin. Charlotte Pain's is a new face and a beautiful one: let him admire it." "He admires rather too many," nodded Grace. "As long as he does not admire yours, you have no right to grumble," rejoined Isaac provokingly: and Grace flung a bundle of work at him, for the laugh turned against her. "Rose, you naughty child, you have my crayons there!" exclaimed Maria, happening to cast her eyes upon the table, where Rose was seated too quietly to be at anything but mischief. "Only one or two of your sketching pencils, Maria," said Miss Rose. "I shan't hurt them. I am making a villa with two turrets and some cows." "I say, Maria, is Charlotte Pain going to take that thoroughbred hunter of hers?" interposed Reginald. "Of course," scoffed Isaac: "saddled and bridled. She'll have him with her in the railway carriage; put him in the corner seat opposite Sir George. Regy's brains may do for sea--if he ever gets there; but they are not sharp enough for land." "They are as sharp as yours, at any rate," flashed Reginald. "Why should she not take him?" "Be quiet, you boys!" said Grace. She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hastings. He did not open the door at the most opportune moment. Maria, Isaac, and Harry were executing a dance that probably had no name in the dancing calendar; Reginald was standing on his head; Rose had just upset the contents of the table, by inadvertently drawing off its old cloth cover, and Grace was scolding her in a loud tone. "What do you call this?" demanded Mr. Hastings, when he had leisurely surveyed the scene. "Studying?" They subsided into quietness and their places; Reginald with his face red and his hair wild, Maria with a pretty blush, Isaac with a smothered laugh. Mr. Hastings addressed his second daughter. "Have you heard anything about this fresh outbreak of fever?" "No, papa," was Maria's reply. "Has it broken out again?" "I hear that it has attacked Sarah Anne Grame."