“There, run away to Justine. They are sadly out of sorts, and quite pining for sea-air,” said mamma, with both hands at her ears, for the war-cries of her darlings were piercing as they departed, proclaiming their wrongs while swarming up stairs, with a skirmish on each landing. With a few more words Christie took leave, and scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed. The contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl’s irritability with their mother’s languid affectation, and her own unfortunate efforts, was too much for her. In the middle of her merriment she paused suddenly, saying to herself: “I never told about my acting. I must go back and have it settled.” She retraced a few steps, then turned and went on again, thinking, “No; for once I’ll be guided by other people’s advice, and let well alone.” A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon consider herself engaged, and desiring her to join the family at the boat on Monday next. At the appointed time Christie was on board, and looked about for her party. Mrs. Saltonstall appeared in the distance with her family about her, and Christie took a survey before reporting herself. Madame looked more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies and bristling with wheat-ears. Beside her sat a gentleman, rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an American man life is a burden till the daily news have been absorbed. Mrs. Saltonstall’s brother was the possessor of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer hat on his head. The little boy more checkered and the little girl more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bonbons, while a French maid and the African footman hovered in the background. [Illustration: MRS. SALTONSTALL AND FAMILY.] Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among a flock of butterflies, Christie modestly presented herself. “Good morning,” said Madame with a nod, which, slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the poppies and the wheat; “I began to be anxious about you. Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher.” The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored expression: “Will you have the paper, Charlotte? There’s nothing in it.”