know,” Imogen replied, with a little coquettish toss of her head; “I think a lot of things, and then you know, in books mamsey, too often men who seem very nice are really dreadful tyrants or something horrid after they’re married.”

“Well, darling, there shall be choice care taken as to whom we give you to,” said her mother. “I daresay it won’t be the first comer, nor the second, nor third whom I shall think worthy of my Imogen.”

“I wonder when he will come,” thought the girl to herself, but she did not express the thought. She only smiled and blushed a little at her mother’s words.

“Tell me more about the Helmonts, mamsey,” she said. “You have been there once, didn’t you say?”

“Yes, but only for a day or two, not long before your dear father and I went out to India,” said Mrs Wentworth with a little sigh. “I don’t remember it very distinctly—it was a great big house, an ideal country-house for a large merry party. Of course, a good many of the young people were not grown up then—there was a baby if I remember rightly. Oh yes, the youngest daughter Beatrix, so she must be only a year or so older than you, darling. How very odd that Mrs Helmont and I have children so nearly of an age, when she might really be my mother!” and Mrs Wentworth gave the little self-complacent laugh she often indulged in when her comparative youth, or youthful appearance, was alluded to.

“How delightful!” exclaimed Imogen, ignoring entirely, though with no intention of disrespect, her mothers last sentence. “How delightful that there should be one daughter, anyway, of my age. There are lots older, I suppose?”

“Two, if not three, married, and three at home,” Mrs Helmont said. “In her letter this morning you see she speaks of Florence as hoping to do all she can to make your visit pleasant. Florence—can that be the youngest daughter? I have such a remembrance of the baby being Beatrix, because I thought it such a pretty name; and when you were born I wanted to call you by it, but your dear father would have Imogen. I’ve always thought it rather an eccentric name, but some people like it. I always forget who Imogen was exactly, and it looks so foolish. I must read up about it, or her, again.”

“Oh, bother, never mind about my name, mamsey. Go on about the Helmonts. I daresay Florence is the youngest. You often muddle about people’s names, you know, mamsey dear. And there are lots of sons, too, I suppose?”

“Oh dear, yes; but remember, dear, I don’t think I want you to fall in love with any of them. They won’t be particularly well off, except the eldest one, and he, of course, not till his father’s death.”

“How horrid!” said Imogen. “I can’t bear counting on people’s fathers and mothers dying. But I don’t care about being rich a bit, mamsey. You have such funny ideas sometimes. We’re not rich, and we’re very happy— now especially that I’ve left school, and we’re not obliged to live all the year round at that stupid old Eastbourne, but can go visits—lovely, delightful visits! And oh, mamsey, do you think you’ll let Thorn Bush and take a dear little house in London, anyway for a year or two?”

“We must see. I think very likely the Helmonts will be able to give me some practical advice, as they are so cordial and friendly. Nothing could be kinder than her letter, and you see she says a fortnight at least, Imogen; though she adds that the house is full already, and will be overflowing by next week.”

“How lovely!” said Imogen again. She was at a loss for adjectives this morning. “Just fancy, mother, how the girls at Miss Cotton’s will envy me. I must write to one or two of them from ‘The Fells’ to tell them of my adventures.”

“Ye-es, perhaps,” said her mother. “But you are not obliged to keep up those schoolgirl friendships too closely, darling. You may find yourself in such a different sphere before long, and then it becomes just a little embarrassing sometimes.”

“Not with Dora Barry,” said Imogen. “I don’t care awfully for any one else, but I have perfectly promised Dora that she is to be my bridesmaid—” She stopped suddenly, blushing as she did so.

“Ah, Imogen,” said her mother, “I have caught you. I thought you were never going to marry! But seriously, dear, you should be a little careful now; even Dora, though she is a nice girl, she is not—not exactly in the same position. I should have much preferred your never going to school at all, you know; only everybody said it would have been so very lonely for you;” and Mrs Wentworth sighed—a simple and unaffected sigh.

“Of course it was good for me to go to school,” said Imogen. “I was as happy as possible there. And, mother, I’m not going to give up all my friends there, whatever you say,” she maintained stoutly, with the slight want of deference in her tone which sometimes bordered rather nearly on disrespect in her way of speaking to her mother. “Above all, not Dora; she’s every bit as much a lady as I am, every bit, even though her father’s only a country doctor.”

She glanced up with a touch of half-saucy defiance in her merry eyes.

“How pretty she looks!” thought Mrs Wentworth; and in her gratification she forgot to feel any annoyance at Imogen’s persistency.

Then a good deal of talk and consultation on the absorbing and inexhaustible subject of “clothes” ensued—talk which demonstrated the absolute necessity of an immediate shopping expedition. Indeed, in shopping expeditions, and instructions endless, minute, and contradictory to the somewhat tried, but patient Colman, promoted pro tem, from the post of house-and-parlour-maid to that of the Wentworth ladies’ personal attendant, passed the next few days, till the eventful Thursday which was to see the little party en route for Grey Fells Hall.

Other visitors were expected to arrive there that day—visitors more welcome and more congenial—yet on the Wentworths an unusual amount of anticipatory attention had been bestowed, attention which, had they known of it, they would certainly not have coveted. Not that it was all unfriendly; Mrs Helmont, and the Squire himself, so far as he ever interfered in the details of such matters, were anxious that the strangers, rather specially thrown on their hospitality, should be happy and at home under their roof. But the precautions they took to this end were not of the most judicious.

“It is Trixie I am uneasy about,” said Mrs Helmont to her husband. “She, and indeed the others too—though Alicia never worries, and Florence, I must say, is good about it—are annoyed at having any ‘outsiders,’ as they call the Wentworths. I almost think, Ronald, you had better say a word to Trixie yourself. It comes with better effect from you, as you seldom do find fault with her.”

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” said Mr Helmont, whose strongest instincts, as I have said, were those of hospitality. “Nothing would vex me more than for any guests of ours not to receive proper attention.”

“It is rather too much attention I dread for them, for the girl at least, at Trixie’s hands,” said Mrs Helmont, rather mysteriously. But the Squire was a little deaf, and did not catch the words.

“I will speak to Beatrix this very morning,” he repeated reassuringly. And speak, unfortunately, he did. He had better have left it alone. Trixie had had the bit between her teeth for