such a rule. You are far too hospitable. But as I was passing—so nice to be neighbours instead of Friar's Row, though I shall ever look on Friar's Row with affection for the sake of old times. What is it the poet says about 'portions and parcels of the dreadful past'? Only there was nothing dreadful in our little suppers; and Martha's stewed tripe beyond praise."

"I hope you are going to eat some of our little supper to-night," said Mrs. Dobbs, composedly. "It's Saturday, you know."

"How odd you should say that! It is exactly the remark I made to Bassy this morning! Oh yes; certainly. And, as I was saying just now, it's quite hors ligne, as the French express it, to inflict myself on you twice in one day."

"You know you are very welcome."

"You're always so kind, dear Mrs. Dobbs! I have been busy teaching all the morning. This very moment I have come from Miss Piper's and——"

"You are not giving her lessons, are you?" asked Mrs. Dobbs, looking up with a smile.

"Oh dear, no! Not, I'm sure, that she would not be an excellent pupil; indeed, both of them in their different styles. One the accomplished musician, and the other so domesticated. No doubt you will hear of it from our dear Miranda, for of course she will be invited. But I thought I would mention it."

"Mention what?—eh?" asked Jo Weatherhead, with impatient curiosity.

"The party. They are going to give a musical party. Though really I might omit the adjective, for who could imagine the Miss Pipers giving a party that wasn't musical? To be sure some persons find it rather trying. Bassy, for instance, cannot altogether approve the new school. But then he was brought up in the strictest classical principles, and he is so very clever himself, that of course——!"

Some native gift of incoherency which distinguished Mrs. Simpson's mind enabled her to reconcile the most conflicting claims on her admiration.

"Ho, ho! a party, eh? A musical party?" said Mr. Weatherhead.

"Yes; but of course there is nothing remarkable in that," replied Mrs. Simpson, very unexpectedly.

"Nothing at all remarkable, I should think," assented Mrs. Dobbs.

"Ah! But the point is—oh, pussy! Poor old pussy, did I hurt her? Dear, dear, dear!"

In the act of throwing herself forward from her place on the sofa, in order to touch Mrs. Dobbs's arm, and thus emphasize her communication, Amelia had accidentally set her foot on the tail of the old tabby cat, who at once protested in the frankest manner.

"I'm so sorry! I am so very nearsighted. Poor old pussums! Come and let us make it up—won't you, like a dear?"

Poor old pussums, however, declined these advances, and took up her position on the other side of her mistress's ample skirts; whence for some time she glared distrustfully at every fresh manifestation of Mrs. Simpson's playful vivacity.

"Well, for goodness' sake tell us the point, if there is one!" cried Mr. Weatherhead, who had been irritably rubbing his nose during this episode.

"Ah! Naughty impatience! That is so like a gentleman! Gentlemen are dreadfully impatient in general; don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dobbs? However, it really will be quite a musical treat. Mr. Cleveland Turner is one of the most rising musicians of the day; I believe nobody can understand his compositions without severe preliminary training. Mr. Sweeting, too, is most amiable; he has taken a country house in the neighbourhood. And Miss Piper has invited a young lady down to stay with her who sings divinely—quite divinely, Miss Piper says; and, indeed, I have no doubt she does, for I saw her name mentioned in the Morning Post at a very aristocratic soirée. And Bassy and I are to be invited!"

"Are you, now? Well, I'm glad of it," said Mrs. Dobbs heartily. She knew this was a distinction which would give her friends pleasure.

"Yes; Bassy is to accompany the young lady's songs on the piano. Mr. Cleveland Turner will not accompany;—or, at least, not anything of a tuneful sort. He doesn't like it. Well, you know, there's no accounting for tastes, is there? Most people think strawberries delicious. But I have known a person who couldn't touch them—invariably produced a rash!"

With which lucid illustration Mrs. Simpson rose, and declared she must positively be going. After an effusive leavetaking—in the course of which the old tabby leaped on to the back of Mrs. Dobbs's chair, where she sat arching her spine and growling—the good lady set forth on her way down the little garden-path in front of the house. But scarcely had she reached the gate, when she turned and tripped back again with a girlish step, which neither increase of years nor flesh had much sobered. "I never delivered my message," she said; "and really it is an extraordinary instance of my absence of mind, for that was the chief reason why I came at all at this hour. I was at Mrs. Bransby's about four o'clock, and left our dear Miranda there."

Here she paused so long that Mrs. Dobbs replied, "Yes; I knew May was going to call there."

"Now I dare say you will scarcely credit it," said Amelia, with her head on one side, her spectacles glistening, and an arch smile illumining her countenance, "but, for the moment, I had totally forgotten again what I was going to say!"

"Lord bless the woman!" muttered Jo Weatherhead, in a tone not, perhaps, quite so inaudible as politeness required.

"But I have it now. This is the message; our dear Miranda begged me to tell you that she will remain at Mrs. Bransby's for afternoon tea, and come home in the cool of the evening. Mrs. Bransby—indeed, all the family—are most kind to her. Of course I don't mean to say that after the brilliant scenes of London society it can be any particular treat to her, although anything more truly elegant than Mrs. Bransby's new cream broché I never beheld in my life. However, they pressed our dear Miranda to stay. And she remarked to me that 'Granny would not be left alone, for she knew Mr. Weatherhead was coming.' And now"—looking at her watch—"I must fly, or I shall be too late for tea; and then what would Bassy say?" She tripped once more down the garden path, stopped at the gate to wave her hand, and at length finally departed.

CHAPTER III.

Meanwhile, May was playing with Mrs. Martin Bransby's children, in the delightful old walled garden; and Mrs. Martin Bransby herself was looking on from the shade of a trellised arbour. These two had become very good friends. Whether Mrs. Bransby was or was not aware of her stepson's rejected suit, May had no means of knowing; but she felt instinctively that Mrs. Bransby was not likely to be super-sensitive on her stepson's behalf, nor to bear her a grudge for having refused him. Theodore's absence was not lamented in his own home. His young half-brothers and sisters openly rejoiced at it; and even his father felt that life went on more pleasantly without him.

May's popularity with the children was a sure passport to their mother's heart; while on her side Mrs. Bransby had developed a most endearing trait of character: she liked Owen Rivers, and was always happy to welcome him to her house. Although Owen admired her beauty and elegance extremely, there was no alloy of coquetry in the preference she showed for his company. Indeed, Owen told his Aunt Jane that Mrs. Bransby's delight in adorning her graceful person came nearer to being a pure case of l'Art pour l'Art than any he had ever witnessed. Nevertheless, the most transcendental of artists enjoys appreciation. So it chanced that on this special afternoon, Mr. Rivers being announced just when she was urging May to remain and drink tea with her, Mrs. Bransby at once suggested that perhaps Mr. Rivers would stay too, and be kind enough to see Miss Cheffington home. Mr. Rivers handsomely acceded to the proposal; and these three