sister than the children, who were unconscious how much depended on discretion.

Young Sylvester Enderby was a fine young man of eighteen, very good-natured, and not at all like a Puritan in appearance or manner.  He had hardly yet begun to think for himself, and was merely obeying his father in joining the army with him, without questioning whether it was the right cause or not.  He was a kind elder brother at home, and here he was ready to be pleased with the children of the house.

Lucy was a high-spirited talkative child, very little used to seeing strangers, and perhaps hardly reined in enough, for her poor mother’s weak health had interfered with strict discipline; and as this evening Walter and Rose were both grave and serious under their anxieties, Lucy was less restrained even than usual.

She was a pretty creature, with bright blue eyes, and an arch expression, all the droller under her prim round cap; and Sylvester was a good deal amused with her pert bold little nods and airs.  He paid a good deal of attention to her, and she in return grew more forward and chattering.  It is what little girls will sometimes do under the pleasure and excitement of the notice of gentlemen, and it makes their friends very uneasy, since the only excuse they can have is in being very little, and it shows a most undesirable want of self-command and love of attention.

In addition to this feeling, Lady Woodley dreaded every word that was spoken, lest it should lead to suspicion, for though she was sure Mr. Enderby would not willingly apprehend her son, yet she could not tell what he might consider his duty to his employers; besides, there were the two soldiers to observe and report, and the discovery that Edmund was at hand might lead to frightful consequences.  She tried to converse composedly with him on his family and the old neighbourhood where they had both lived, often interrupting herself to send a look or word of warning to the lower end of the table; but Lucy and Charles were too wild to see or heed her, and grew more and more unrestrained, till at last, to the dismay of her mother, brother, and sister, Charles’ voice was heard so loud as to attract everyone’s notice, in a shout of wonder and complaint, “Mother, mother, look!  Rose has gobbled up a whole pigeon to her own share!”

Rose could not keep herself from blushing violently, as she whispered reprovingly that he must not be rude.  Lucy did not mend the matter by saying with an impertinent nod, “Rose does not like to be found out.”

“Children,” said Lady Woodley, gravely, “I shall send you away if you do not behave discreetly.”

“But, mother, Rose is greedy,” said Lucy.

“Hold your tongues, little mischief makers!” burst out Walter, who had been boiling over with anxiety and indignation the whole time.

“Walter is cross now,” said Lucy, pleased to have produced a sensation, and to have shocked Eleanor, who sat all the time as good, demure, and grave, as if she had been forty years old.

“Pray excuse these children,” said Lady Woodley, trying to hide her anxiety under cover of displeasure at them; “no doubt Mrs. Enderby keeps much better order at home.  Lucy, Charles, silence at once.  Walter, is there no wine?”

“If there is, it is too good for rebels,” muttered Walter to himself, as he rose.  “Light me, Deborah, and I’ll see.”

“La!  Master Walter,” whispered Deborah, “you know there is nothing but the dregs of the old cask of Malmsey, that was drunk up at the old squire’s burying.”

“Hush, hush, Deb,” returned the boy; “fill it up with water, and it will be quite good enough for those who won’t drink the King’s health.”

Deborah gave a half-puzzled smile.  “Ye’re a madcap, Master Walter!  But sure, Sir, the spirit of a wolf must have possessed Mistress Rose—she that eats no supper at all, in general!  D’ye think it is wearying about Master Edmund that gives her a craving?”

It might be dangerous, but Walter was so much diverted, that he could not help saying, “I have no doubt it is on his account.”

“I know,” said Deborah, “that I get so faint at heart that I am forced to be taking something all day long to keep about at all!”

By this time they were re-entering the hall, when there was a sound from the kitchen as of someone calling.  Deborah instantly turned, screaming out joyfully, “Bless me! is it you?” and though out of sight, her voice was still heard in its high notes of joy.  “You good-for-nothing rogue! are you turned up again like a bad tester, staring into the kitchen like a great oaf, as you be?”

There was a general laugh, and Eleanor said, “That must be Diggory.”

“A poor country clown,” said Lady Woodley, “whom we sent to join my son’s troop.  I hope he is in no danger.”

“Oh no,” said Mr. Enderby; “he has only to return to his plough.”

“Hollo there!” shouted Walter.  “Come in, Diggory, and show yourself.”

In came Diggory, an awkward thick-set fellow, with a shock head of hair, high leathern gaiters, and a buff belt over his rough leathern jerkin.  There he stood, pulling his forelock, and looking sheepish.

“Come in, Diggory,” said his mistress; “I am glad to see you safe.  You need not be afraid of these gentlemen.  Where are the rest?”

“Slain, every man of them, an’t please your ladyship.”

“And your master, Mr. Woodley?”

“Down, too, an’t please your ladyship.”

Lucy screamed aloud; Eleanor ran to her mother, and hid her face in her lap; Charles sat staring, with great round frightened eyes.  Very distressing it was to be obliged to leave the poor children in such grief and alarm, when it was plain all the time that Diggory was an arrant coward, who had fancied more deaths and dangers than were real, and was describing more than he had even thought he beheld, in order to make himself into a hero instead of a runaway.  Moreover, Lady Woodley and Rose had to put on a show of grief, lest they should betray that they were better informed; and they were in agonies lest Walter’s fury at the falsehoods should be as apparent to their guests as it was to themselves.

“Are you sure of what you say, Diggory?” said Lady Woodley.

“Sure as that I stand here, my lady.  There was sword and shot and smoke all round.  I stood it all till Farmer Ewins was cut down a-one-side of me, ma’am, and Master Edmund, more’s the pity, with his brains scattered here and there on the banks of the river.”

There was another cry among the children, and Walter made such a violent gesture, that Rose, covering her face with her handkerchief, whispered to him, “Walter dear, take care.”  Walter relieved his mind by returning, “Oh that I could cudgel the rogue soundly!”

At the same time Colonel Enderby turned to their mother, saying, “Take comfort, madam, this fellow’s tale carries discredit on the face of it.  Let me examine him, with your permission.  Where did you last see your master?”

“I know none of your places, sir,” answered Diggory, sullenly.

Colonel Enderby spoke sternly and peremptorily.  “In the town, or in the fields?  Answer me that, sirrah.  In the field on the bank of the river?”

“Ay.”

“There you left your ranks, you rogue; that was the way you lost sight of your master!” said the colonel.  Then, turning to Lady Woodley, as Diggory slunk off, “Your ladyship need not be alarmed.  An hour after the encounter, in which he pretends to have seen your son slain, I saw him in full health and soundness.”

“A cowardly villain!” cried Walter, delighted to let out some of his indignation.  “I knew he was not speaking a word of truth.”

The children cheered up in a moment; but Lady Woodley was not sorry to make this agitating scene an excuse for retiring with all her children.  Lucy and Eleanor were quite comforted, and