"Supper's ready," said a loud, harsh voice, which cut like an arrow right through Miss Heathery's best note. "Now you shouldn't, Thisbe," said Mrs Luttrell in tones of mild reproach; but the reproof was not heard, for the door was sharply closed. "It is only our Thisbe's way, Mr Bayle," whispered Mrs Luttrell; "please don't notice it. Excellent servant, but so soon put out." She nodded confidentially, and then stole out on tiptoe, so as not to interrupt Miss Heathery, who went on--"singing from Palestine hither I come," to the end. Then words of reproof and sharp retort could be heard outside; and after a while poor Mrs Luttrell came back looking very red, to lean over the curate from behind the sofa, brooding over him as if he were a favourite chicken. "I don't like finding fault with the servants, Mr Bayle. Did you hear me?" "I could not help hearing," he said smiling. "She does provoke me so," continued Mrs Luttrell in a soft clucking way, that quite accorded with her brooding. "I know I shall have to discharge her." "She does not like a little extra trouble, perhaps. Company." "Oh, no; it's not that," said Mrs Luttrell. "She'll work night and day for one if she's in a good temper; but, the fact is, Mr Bayle, she does not like this engagement, and quite hates Mr Hallam." Bayle drew his breath hard, but he turned a grave, smiling face to his hostess. "That's the reason, I'm sure, why she is so awkward to-night, my dear--I beg pardon, I mean Mr Bayle," said the old lady colouring as ingenuously as a girl, "but she pretends it is about the potatoes." "Potatoes?" said Bayle, who was eager to divert her thoughts. "Yes. You see the doctor is so proud of his potatoes, and I was going to please him by having some roasted for supper and brought up in a napkin, but Thisbe took offence directly, and said that cold chicken and hot potatoes would be ridiculous, and she has been in a huff ever since." Just then the door opened and the person in question entered, to come straight to Mrs Luttrell, who began to tremble and look at the curate for help. "There's something gone wrong," she whispered. "Can I speak to you, please, mum?" said Thisbe, glaring at her severely. "Well, I don't know, Thisbe, I--" "Let me go out and speak to Thisbe, mamma dear," said Millicent, who had crossed the room, divining what was wrong. "Oh, if you would, my dear," said Mrs Luttrell eagerly; and Thisbe was compelled to retreat, her young mistress following her out of the room. "That's very good of her, Mr Bayle," said Mrs Luttrell, with a satisfied sigh. "Millicent can always manage Thisbe. She has such a calm, dignified way with her. Do you know she is the only one who can manage her Aunt Trampleasure when she begins to murmur. Ah, I don't know what I shall do when she has gone." "You will have the satisfaction of knowing that she is happy with the man she loves."