"You see, I found I would be here almost as soon as a letter," explains Roland; "and, as I hate writing like a nightmare, I resolved to take you a little by surprise."
Mother, radiant, is sitting near him, regarding him with humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indulgent husband she would have been a dreadful goose. Even as it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equalled by mine.
"How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly?" I ask, when I have embraced him as much as he will allow.
"I hardly know. Luck, I fancy—and the colonel—did it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which I return by having a weakness for the old boy's daughter. Mother"—languidly—"may I marry the old boy's daughter? She is an extremely pretty little girl, young, with fifteen thousand pounds; but I would not like to engage myself to her without your full consent."
Mother laughs and passes her hand with a light caressing gesture over his charming face.
"Conceited boy!" she murmurs, fondly; "there is little chance you will ever do so much good for yourself."
"Don't be too sure. At all events, I have your consent?"
"Yes, and my blessing, too," says mother, laughing again.
"Thanks. Then I'll turn it over in my mind when I go back."
"Roly," I break in with my accustomed graciousness, "what brought you?"
"The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora's young man."
A laugh and a blush from Dora.
"I met him just now," I say, "down by the trout-river. What a pity he did not come home with me, to satisfy your curiosity without delay!"
"Mother, do you think it the correct thing for Phyllis to keep clandestine appointments with her brother-in-law? Dora, is it possible you do not scent mischief in the air? A person, too, of Phyllis's well-known attractions—"
"What was he doing at the trout-river?" asks Dora, with a smile. She is too secure in the knowledge of her own beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all in me.
"Nothing, as far as I could see. He talked a little, and said he was coming here next Friday."
"The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his intentions," says Roly. "It is most fortunate I am on the spot. One should never let an affair of this kind drag. It will doubtless be a thankless task; but I make a point of never shirking duty; and when we have put our beloved father comfortably under ground—"
"Roland," interrupts mother, in a shocked tone. There is a pause.
"I quite thought you were going to say something," says Roland, amiably. "I was mistaken. I will therefore continue. When we have put our beloved father well under the ground I will then be head of this house, and natural guardian to these poor dear girls and, with this prospect in view, I feel even at the present moment a certain responsibility, that compels me to look after their interests and bring this recreant gallant to book."
"Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so of your father," puts in mamma, feebly.
"Very well, I won't," returns Roly; "and he shan't be put under ground at all, if you don't wish it. Cremation shall be his fate, and we shall keep his precious ashes in an urn."
"I don't believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora," says Billy, irrevelantly. "I think he likes Phyllis twice as well." This remark, though intended to do so, does not act as a bombshell in the family circle; it is regarded as a mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with silent contempt. What could a boy know about such matters?
"I have a month's leave," Roland informs us presently. "Do you think in that time we could polish it off—courtship, proposal, and wedding? Though," reflectively, "that would be a pity, as by puffing off the marriage for a little while I might then screw another month out of the old boy."
"Just so," I answer, approvingly.
"He is such a desirable young man in every way," says mother, a propos of Mr. Carrington; "so steady, well-tempered, and his house is really beautiful. You know it, Roland—Strangemore—seven miles from this?"
"I think it gloomy," Dora says, quietly. "When I—if I were to—that is—"
"What a charming virtue is modesty!" I exclaim, sotto voce.
"Go on, Dora," says Roland, in an encouraging tone. "When you marry Mr. Carrington, what will you do then?"
"Of course I don't see the smallest prospect of it," murmurs Dora, with downcast eyes; "but if I were to become mistress of Strangemore I would throw more light into all the rooms; I would open up windows everywhere and take down those heavy pillars."
"Then you would ruin it," I cry indignantly; "its ancient appearance is its chief charm. You would make it a mere modern dwelling-house; and the pillars I think magnificent."
"I don't," says dear Dora, immovably; "and if ever I get the chance I will certainly remove them."
"You won't get the chance, then; you need not think it. Mr. Carrington has not the smallest idea of marrying you," exclaims Billy, whose Latin and Greek have evidently disagreed with him.
"It is a pity your tutor cannot teach you to be a gentleman," retorts Dora, casting a withering glance at our youngest born.
"Our dear William's temper appears slightly ruffled," remarks Roland, smoothly. "Evidently the gentleman of the name of Caldwood was lavish with his birch this morning. Come with me, Phyllis: I want to visit the stables."
I follow him gladly; and Billy joining us, with a grim countenance, we sally forth, leaving Dora to pour her griefs into mother's gentle bosom.
CHAPTER VII
FRIDAY brings Mr. Carrington, who is specially agreeable, and devotes himself a good deal to Roland. There is a considerable amount of talk about shooting, hunting, and so forth, and we can all see that Roly is favorably impressed. Dora's behavior is perfect—her modesty and virtuous bashfulness apparent. Our visitor rather affects her society than otherwise, but beyond listening to her admiringly when she speaks, shows no marked attention. In the country a visit is indeed a visitation, and several hours elapse before he takes his departure. Once finding myself alone with him in the conservatory, I bestow upon him my promised picture, which he receives with open gratitude and consigns to his pocket as he hears footsteps approaching.
Roland's presence has inspired us all with much additional cheerfulness. We have never appeared so gay so free from restraint, as on this afternoon, and Mr. Carrington finds it hard to tear himself away. I myself am in wild spirits, and quite outshine myself every now and then; and Billy, who is not at any time afflicted with shyness, thinks it a safe opportunity to ask our friend before he leaves if he will some day take us for a drive in his dog-cart.
"Of course I will," say Mr. Carrington. "How unpardonable of me never to have thought of it before! But perhaps," speaking to Billy, but looking at Dora and me, "perhaps you would prefer four horses and the coach? It will be a charity to give it a chance to escape from the moths."
"Oh, I say" says Billy, "are you in earnest?" and, being reassured on this point, fairly overflows with delight.
Dora