The journey to London was prosperously performed, and Mrs. Frederick Langford was not overfatigued when she arrived at Uncle Geoffrey’s house at Westminster. The cordiality of their greeting may be imagined, as a visit from Henrietta had been one of the favourite visions of her cousin Beatrice, through her whole life; and the two girls were soon deep in the delights of a conversation in which sense and nonsense had an equal share.

The next day was spent by the two Mrs. Langfords in quiet together, while Henrietta was conducted through a rapid whirl of sight-seeing by Beatrice and Uncle Geoffrey, the latter of whom, to his niece’s great amazement, professed to find almost as much novelty in the sights as she did. A short December day, though not what they would have chosen, had this advantage, that the victim could not be as completely fagged and worn out as in a summer’s day, and Henrietta was still fresh and in high spirits when they drove home and found to their delight that the two schoolboys had already arrived.

Beatrice met both alike as old friends and almost brothers, but Alexander, though returning her greeting with equal cordiality, looked shyly at the new aunt and cousin, and as Henrietta suspected, wished them elsewhere. She had heard much of him from Beatrice, and knew that her brother regarded him as a formidable rival; and she was therefore surprised to see that his broad honest face expressed more good humour than intellect, and his manners wanted polish. He was tolerably well-featured, with light eyes and dark hair, and though half a year older than his cousin, was much shorter, more perhaps in appearance than reality, from the breadth and squareness of his shoulders, and from not carrying himself well.

Alexander was, as ought previously to have been recorded, the third son of Mr. Roger Langford, the heir of Knight Sutton, at present living at Sutton Leigh, a small house on his father’s estate, busied with farming, sporting, and parish business; while his active wife contrived to make a narrow income feed, clothe, and at least half educate their endless tribe of boys. Roger, the eldest, was at sea; Frederick, the second, in India; and Alexander owed his more learned education to Uncle Geoffrey, who had been well recompensed by his industry and good conduct. Indeed his attainments had always been so superior to those of his brothers, that he might have been considered as a prodigy, had not his cousin Frederick been always one step before him.

Fred had greater talent, and had been much better taught at home, so that on first going to school, he took and kept the higher place; but this was but a small advantage in his eyes, compared with what he had to endure out of school during his first half-year. Unused to any training or companionship save of womankind, he was disconsolate, bewildered, derided in that new rude world; while Alex, accustomed to fight his way among rude brothers, instantly found his level, and even extended a protecting hand to his cousin, who requited it with little gratitude. Soon overcoming his effeminate habits, he grew expert and dexterous, and was equal to Alex in all but main bodily strength; but the spirit of rivalry once excited, had never died away, and with a real friendship and esteem for each other, their names or rather their nicknames had almost become party words among their schoolfellows.

Nor was it probable that this competition would be forgotten on this first occasion of spending their holidays together. Fred felt himself open to that most galling accusation of want of manliness, on account at once of his ignorance of country sports, and of his knowledge of accomplishments; but he did not guess at the feeling which made Alexander on his side regard those very accomplishments with a feeling which, if it were not jealousy, was at least very nearly akin to it.

Beatrice Langford had not the slightest claim to beauty. She was very little, and so thin that her papa did her no injustice when he called her skin and bones; but her thin brown face, with the aid of a pair of very large deep Italian-looking eyes, was so full of brilliant expression, and showed such changes of feeling from sad to gay, from sublime to ridiculous, that no one could have wished one feature otherwise. And if instead of being “like the diamond bright,” they had been “dull as lead,” it would have been little matter to Alex. Beatrice had been, she was still, his friend, his own cousin, more than what he could believe a sister to be if he had one,—in short his own little Queen Bee. He had had a monopoly of her; she had trained him in all the civilization which he possessed, and it was with considerable mortification that he thought himself lowered in her eyes by comparison with his old rival, as old a friend of hers, with the same claim to cousinly affection; and instead of understanding only what she had taught him, familiar with the tastes and pursuits on which she set perhaps too great a value.

Fred did not care nearly as much for Beatrice’s preference: it might be that he took it as a matter of course, or perhaps that having a sister of his own, he did not need her sympathy, but still it was a point on which he was likely to be sensitive, and thus her favour was likely to be secretly quite as much a matter of competition as their school studies and pastimes.

For instance, dinner was over, and Henrietta was admiring some choice books of prints, such luxuries as Uncle Geoffrey now afforded himself, and which his wife and daughter greatly preferred to the more costly style of living which some people thought befitted them. She called to her brother who was standing by the fire, “Fred, do come and look at this beautiful Albert Durer of Sintram.”

He hesitated, doubting whether Alexander would scorn him for an acquaintance with Albert Durer, but Beatrice added, “Yes, it was an old promise that I would show it to you. There now, look, admire, or be pronounced insensible.”

“A wonderful old fellow was that Albert,” said Fred, looking, and forgetting his foolish false shame in the pleasure of admiration. “Yes; O how wondrously the expression on Death’s face changes as it does in the story! How easy it is to see how Fouque must have built it up! Have you seen it, mamma?”

His mother came to admire. Another print was produced, and another, and Fred and Beatrice were eagerly studying the elaborate engravings of the old German, when Alex, annoyed at finding her too much engrossed to have a word for him, came to share their occupation, and took up one of the prints with no practised hand. “Take care, Alex, take care,” cried Beatrice, in a sort of excruciated tone; “don’t you see what a pinch you are giving it! Only the initiated ought to handle a print: there is a pattern for you,” pointing to Fred.

She cut right and left: both looked annoyed, and retreated from the table. Fred thinking how Alex must look down on fingers which possessed any tenderness; Alex provoked at once and pained. Queen Bee’s black eyes perceived their power, and gave a flash of laughing triumph.

But Beatrice was not quite in her usual high spirits, for she was very sorry to leave her mother; and when they went up stairs for the night, she stood long over the fire talking to her, and listening to certain parting cautions.

“How I wish you could have come, mamma! I am so sure that grandmamma in her kindness will tease Aunt Mary to death. You are the only person who can guard her without affronting grandmamma. Now I—”

“Had better let it alone,” rejoined Mrs. Geoffrey Langford. “You will do more harm than by letting things take their course. Remember, too, that Aunt Mary was at home there long before you or I knew the place.”

“Oh, if that tiresome Aunt Amelia would but have had some consideration! To go out of town and leave Aunt Susan on our hands just when we always go home!”

“We have lamented that often enough,” said her mother smiling. “It is unlucky, but it cannot be too often repeated, that wills and wishes must sometimes bend.”

“You say that for me, mamma,” said Beatrice. “You think grandmamma and I have too much will for each other.”

“If you are conscious of that, Bee, I hope that you will bend that wilful will of yours.”

“I hope I shall,” said Beatrice, “but.... Well, I must go to bed. Good night, mamma.”

And Mrs. Geoffrey Langford looked after her daughter anxiously, but she well knew that Beatrice knew her besetting fault, and she trusted to the many fervent resolutions she had made against it.

The next morning the party bade adieu to Mrs. Geoffrey Langford, and set out on their journey to Knight Sutton. They filled a whole railroad carriage, and were a very cheerful party. Alexander and Beatrice sat opposite to each other, talking over Knight Sutton delights with animation, Beatrice ever and anon turning to her other cousins with explanations, or referring to her papa, who was reading the newspaper and talking with Mrs. Frederick Langford.

The day was not long enough for all the talk of the cousins, and the early winter twilight came on before their conversation was exhausted, or they had reached the Allonfield station.

“Here we are!” exclaimed Beatrice, as the train stopped, and at the same moment a loud voice called out, “All right! where are you, Alex?” upon which Alexander tumbled across Henrietta to feel for the handle of the carriage-door, replying, “Here, old fellow, let us out. Have you brought Dumpling?” And Uncle Geoffrey and Beatrice exclaimed, “How d’ye do, Carey?”

When Alexander had succeeded in making his exit, Henrietta beheld him shaking hands with a figure not quite his own height, and in its rough great-coat not unlike a small species of bear. Uncle Geoffrey and Fred handed out the ladies, and sought their appurtenances in the dark, and Henrietta began to give Alex credit for a portion of that which maketh man, when he shoved his brother, admonishing him that there was Aunt Mary, upon which Carey advanced, much encumbered with sheepish shyness, presented a great rough driving-glove, and shortly and bluntly replied to the soft tones which kindly greeted him, and inquired for all at home.

“Is the Hall carriage come?” asked Alex, and, receiving a gruff affirmative, added, “then, Aunt Mary, you had better come to it while Uncle Geoffrey looks after the luggage,” offered his arm with tolerable courtesy, and conducted her to the carriage. “There,” said he, “Carey has driven in our gig, and I suppose Fred and I had better go back with him.”

“Is the horse steady?” asked his aunt, anxiously.

“Dumple? To be sure! Never does wrong! do you, old fellow?” said Alex, patting his old friend.

“And no lamps?”

“O, we know the way blindfold, and you might cross Sutton Heath a dozen times without meeting anything but a wheelbarrow-full of peat.”

“And how is the road now? It used to be very bad in my time.”

“Lots of ruts,” muttered Carey to his brother, who interpreted it, “A few ruts this winter, but Dumpling knows all the bad places.”

By this time Uncle Geoffrey came up, and instantly perceiving the state of things, said, “I say, Freddy, do you mind changing places with me? I should like to have a peep at Uncle Roger before going up to the house, and then Dumpling’s feelings won’t be hurt by passing the turn to Sutton Leigh.”

Fred could not object, and his mother rejoiced in the belief that Uncle Geoffrey would take the reins, nor did Beatrice undeceive her, though, as the vehicle rattled past the carriage at full speed, she saw Alexander’s own flourish of the whip, and knew that her papa was letting the boys have their own way. She had been rather depressed in the morning on leaving her mother, but as she came nearer home her spirits mounted, and she was almost wild with glee. “Aunt Mary, do you know where you are?”

“On Sutton Heath, I presume, from the absence of landmarks.”

“Yes, that we are. You dear old place, how d’ye do? You beginning of home! I don’t know when it is best coming to you: on a summer’s evening, all glowing with purple heath, or a frosty star-light night like this. There is the Sutton Leigh turn! Hurrah! only a mile further to the gate.”

“Where I used to go to meet the boys coming home from school,” said her aunt, in a low tone of deep feeling. But she would not sadden their blithe young hearts, and added cheerfully, “Just the same as ever, I see: how well I know the outline of the bank there!”

“Ay, it is your fatherland, too, Aunt Mary! Is there not something inspiring in the very air? Come, Fred, can’t you get up a little enthusiasm?”

“Oceans, without getting it up,” replied Fred. “I never was more rejoiced in my whole life,” and he began to hum Domum.

“Sing it, sing it; let us join in chorus as homage to Knight Sutton,” cried Henrietta.

And the voices began, “Domum, Domum, dulce Domum;” even Aunt Mary herself caught the feelings of her young companions, felt herself coming to her own beloved home and parents, half forgot how changed was her situation, and threw herself into the delight of returning.

“Now, Fred,” said Henrietta, “let us try those verses that you found a tune for, that begin ‘What is home?’”

This also was sung, and by the time it was finished they had reached a gate leading into a long drive through dark beech woods. “This is the beautiful wood of which I have often told you, Henrietta,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford.

“The wood with glades like cathedral aisles,” said Henrietta. “O, how delightful it will be to see it come out in leaf!”

“Which I have never seen,” said Beatrice. “I tell papa he has made his fortune, and ought to retire, and he says he is too young for it.”

“In which I fully agree with him,” said her aunt. “I should not like to see him with nothing to do.”

“O, mamma, Uncle Geoffrey would never be anywhere with nothing to do,” said Henrietta.

“No,” said her mother, “but people are always happier with work made for them, than with what they make for themselves. Besides, Uncle Geoffrey has too much talent to be spared.”

“Ay,” said Fred, “I wondered to hear you so devoid of ambition, little Busy Bee.”

“It is only Knight Sutton and thinking of May flowers that makes me so,” said Beatrice. “I believe after all, I should break my heart if papa did retire without—”

“Without what, Bee?”

“Being Lord Chancellor, I suppose,” said Henrietta very seriously. “I am sure I should.”

“His being in Parliament will content me for the present,” said Beatrice, “for I have been told too often that high principles don’t rise in the world, to expect any more. We can be just as proud of him as if he was.”

“You are in a wondrously humble and philosophic mood, Queen Bee,” said Henrietta; “but where are we now?” added she, as a gate swung back.

“Coming into the paddock,” said Beatrice; “don’t you see the lights in the house? There, that is the drawing-room window to the right, and that large one the great hall window. Then upstairs, don’t you see that red fire-light? That is the south room, which Aunt Mary will be sure to have.”

Henrietta did not answer, for there was something that subdued her in the nervous pressure of her mother’s hand. The carriage stopped at the door, whence streamed forth light, dazzling to eyes long accustomed to darkness; but in the midst stood a figure which Henrietta could not but have recognized in an instant, even had not old Mr. Langford paid more than one visit to Rocksand. Tall, thin, unbent, with high bald forehead, clear eye, and long snowy hair; there he was, lifting rather than handing his daughter-in-law from the carriage, and fondly kissing her brow; then he hastily greeted the other occupants of the carriage, while she received the kiss of Mrs. Langford.

They were now in the hall, and turning again to his daughter-in-law, he gave her his arm, and led her into the drawing-room, where he once more embraced her, saying, “Bless you, my own dear Mary!” She clung to him for a moment as if she longed to weep with him, but recovering herself in an instant, she gave her attention to Mrs. Langford, who was trying to administer to her comfort with a degree of bustle and activity which suited well with the alertness of her small figure and the vivacity of the black eyes which still preserved their brightness, though her hair was perfectly white. “Well, Mary, my dear, I hope you are not tired. You had better sit down and take off your furs, or will you go to your room? But where is Geoffrey?”

“He went with Alex and Carey, round by Sutton Leigh,” said Beatrice.

“Ha! ha! my little Queen, are you there?” said grandpapa, holding out his arms to her. “And,” added he, “is not this your first introduction to the twins, grandmamma? Why you are grown as fine a pair as I would wish to see on a summer’s day. Last time I saw you I could hardly tell you apart, when you both wore straw hats and white trousers. No mistake now though. Well, I am right glad to have you here.”

“Won’t you take off some of your wraps, Mary?” proceeded Mrs. Langford, and her daughter-in-law, with a soft “Thank you,” passively obeyed. “And you too, my dear,” she added to Henrietta.

“Off with that bonnet, Miss Henrietta,” proceeded grandpapa. “Let me see whether you are as like your brother as ever. He has your own face, Mary.”

“Do not you think his forehead like—” and she looked to the end of the room where hung the portraits of two young children, the brothers Geoffrey and Frederick. Henrietta had often longed to see it, but now she could attend to nothing but her mamma.

“Like poor dear Frederick?” said grandmamma. “Well, I can’t judge by firelight, you know, my dear, but I should say they were both your very image.”

“You can’t be the image of any one I should like better,” said Mr. Langford, turning to them cheerfully, and taking Henrietta’s hand. “I wish nothing better than to find you the image of your mamma inside and out.”

“Ah, there’s Geoffrey!” cried Mrs. Langford, springing up and almost running to meet him.

“Well, Geoffrey, how d’ye do?” added his father with an indescribable tone and look of heartfelt delight. “Left all your cares behind you?”

“Left my wife behind me,” said Uncle Geoffrey, making a rueful face.

“Ay, it is a sad business that poor Beatrice cannot come,” said both the old people, “but how is poor Lady Susan?”

“As usual, only too nervous to be left with none of the family at hand. Well, Mary, you look tired.”

Overcome, Uncle Geoffrey would have said, but he thought the other accusation would answer the same purpose and attract less attention, and it succeeded, for Mrs. Langford proposed to take her up stairs. Henrietta thought that Beatrice would have offered to save her the trouble, but this would not have been at all according to the habits of grandmamma or granddaughter, and Mrs. Langford briskly led the way to a large cheerful-looking room, talking all the time and saying she supposed Henrietta would like to be with her mamma. She nodded to their maid, who was waiting there, and gave her a kindly greeting, stirred the already bright fire into a blaze, and returning to her daughter-in-law who was standing like one in a dream, she gave her a fond kiss, saying, “There, Mary, I thought you would like to be here.”

“Thank you, thank you, you are always kind.”

“There now, Mary, don’t let yourself be overcome. You would not bring him back again, I know. Come, lie down and rest. There—that is right—and don’t think of coming down stairs. You think your mamma had better not, don’t you?”

“Much better not, thank you, grandmamma,” said Henrietta, as she assisted in settling her mother on the sofa. “She is tired and overcome now, but she will be herself after a rest.”

“And ask for anything you like, my dear. A glass of wine or a cup of coffee; Judith will get you one in a moment. Won’t you have a cup of coffee, Mary, my dear?”

“Thank you, no thank you,” said Mrs. Frederick Langford, raising herself. “Indeed I am sorry—it is very foolish.” Here the choking sob came again, and she was forced to lie down. Grandmamma stood by, warming a shawl to throw over her, and pitying her in audible whispers. “Poor thing, poor thing! it is very sad for her. There! a pillow, my dear? I’ll fetch one out of my room. No? Is her head high enough? Some sal-volatile? Yes, Mary, would you not like some sal-volatile?”

And away she went in search of it, while Henrietta, excessively distressed, knelt by her mother, who, throwing her arms round her neck, wept freely for some moments, then laid her head on the cushions again, saying, “I did not think I was so weak!”

“Dearest mamma,” said Henrietta, kissing her and feeling very guilty.

“If I have not distressed grandmamma!” said her mother anxiously. “No, never mind me, my dear, it was fatigue and—”

Still she could not finish, so painfully did the familiar voices, the unchanged furniture, recall both her happy childhood and the bridal days when she had last entered the house, that it seemed as it were a new thing, a fresh shock to miss the tone that was never to be heard there again. Why should all around be the same, when all within was altered? But it had been only the first few moments that had overwhelmed her, and the sound of Mrs. Langford’s returning footsteps recalled her habit of self-control; she thanked her, held out her quivering hand, drank the sal-volatile, pronounced herself much better, and asked pardon for having given so much trouble.

“Trouble? my dear child, no such thing! I only wish I could see you better. No doubt it is too much for you, this coming home the first time; but then you know poor Fred is gone to a better—Ah! well, I see you can’t bear to speak of him, and perhaps after all quiet is the best thing. Don’t let your mamma think of dressing and coming down, my dear.”

There was a little combat on this point, but it ended in Mrs. Frederick Langford yielding, and agreeing to remain upstairs. Grandmamma would have waited to propose to her each of the dishes that were to appear at table, and hear which she thought would suit her taste; but very fortunately, as Henrietta thought, a bell rang at that moment, which she pronounced to be “the half-hour bell,” and she hastened away, telling her granddaughter that dinner would be ready at half-past five, and calling the maid outside the door to giver her full directions where to procure anything that her mistress might want.

“Dear grandmamma! just like herself!” said Mrs. Frederick Langford. “But Henrietta, my dear,” she added with some alarm, “make haste and dress: you must never be too late in this house!”

Henrietta was not much accustomed to dress to a moment, and she was too anxious about her mamma to make speed with her whole will, and her hair was in no state of forwardness when the dinner-bell rang, causing her mamma to start and hasten her with an eager, almost alarmed manner. “You don’t know how your grandmamma dislikes being kept waiting,” said she.

At last she was ready, and running down, found all the rest assembled, evidently waiting for her. Frederick, looking anxious, met her at the door to receive her assurances that their mother was better; the rest inquired, and her apologies were cut short by grandmamma calling them to eat her turkey before it grew cold. The spirits of all the party were perhaps damped by Mrs. Frederick Langford’s absence and its cause, for the dinner was not a very lively one, nor the conversation very amusing to Henrietta and Frederick, as it was chiefly on the news of the country neighbourhood, in which Uncle Geoffrey showed much interest.

As soon as she was released from the dining-room, Henrietta ran up to her mamma, whom she found refreshed and composed. “But, O mamma, is this a good thing for you?” said Henrietta, looking at the red case containing her father’s miniature, which had evidently been only just closed on her entrance.

“The very best thing for me, dearest,” was the answer, now given in her own calm tones. “It does truly make me happier than anything else. No, don’t look doubtful, my Henrietta; if it were repining it might hurt me, but I trust it is not.”

“And does this really comfort you, mamma?” said Henrietta, as she pressed the spring, and gazed thoughtfully on the portrait. “O, I cannot fancy that! the more I think, the more I try to realize what it might have been, think what Uncle Geoffrey is to Beatrice, till sometimes, O mamma, I feel quite rebellious!”

“You will be better disciplined in time, my poor child,” said her mother, sadly. “As your grandmamma said, who could be so selfish as to wish him here?”

“And can you bear to say so, mamma?”

She clasped her hands and looked up, and Henrietta feared she had gone too far. Both were silent for some little time, until at last the daughter timidly asked, “And was this your old room, mamma?”

“Yes: look in that shelf in the corner; there are all our old childish books. Bring that one,” she added, as Henrietta took one out, and opening it, she showed in the fly-leaf the well-written “F.H. Langford,” with the giver’s name; and below in round hand, scrawled all over the page, “Mary Vivian, the gift of her cousin Fred.” “I believe that you may find that in almost all of them,” said she. “I am glad they have been spared from the children at Sutton Leigh. Will you bring me a few more to look over, before you go down again to grandmamma?”

Henrietta did not like to leave her, and lingered while she made a selection for her among the books, and from that fell into another talk, in which they were interrupted by a knock at the door, and the entrance of Mrs. Langford herself. She sat a little time, and asked of health, strength, and diet, until she bustled off again to see if there was a good fire in Geoffrey’s room, telling Henrietta that tea would soon be ready.

Henrietta’s ideas of grandmammas were formed on the placid Mrs. Vivian, naturally rather indolent, and latterly very infirm, although considerably younger than Mrs. Langford; and she stood looking after in speechless amazement, her mamma laughing at her wonder. “But, my dear child,” she said, “I beg you will go down. It will never do to have you staying up here all the evening.”

Henrietta was really going this time, when as she opened the door, she was stopped by a new visitor. This was an elderly respectable-looking maid-servant, old Judith, whose name was well known to her. She had been nursery-maid at Knight Sutton at the time “Miss Mary” arrived from India, and was now, what in a more modernized family would have been called ladies’-maid or housekeeper, but here was a nondescript office, if anything, upper housemaid. How she was loved and respected is known to all who are happy enough to possess a “Judith.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said she, as Henrietta opened the door just before her, and Mrs. Frederick Langford, on hearing her voice, called out, “O Judith! is that you? I was in hopes you were coming to see me.”

She advanced with a courtesy, at the same time affectionately taking the thin white hand stretched out to her. “I hope you are better, ma’am. It is something like old times to have you here again.”

“Indeed I am very glad to be here, Judith,” was the answer, “and very glad to see you looking like your own dear self.”

“Ah! Miss Mary; I beg your pardon, ma’am; I wish I could see you looking better.”

“I shall, I hope, to-morrow, thank you, Judith. But you have not been introduced to Henrietta, there.”

“But I have often heard of you, Judith,” said Henrietta, cordially holding out her hand. Judith took it, and looked at her with affectionate earnestness. “Sure enough, miss,” said she, “as Missus says, you are the very picture of your mamma when she went away; but I think I see a look of poor Master Frederick too.”

“Have you seen my brother, Judith?” asked Henrietta, fearing a second discussion on likenesses.

“Yes, Miss Henrietta; I was coming down from Missus’s room, when Mr. Geoffrey stopped me to ask how I did, and he said ‘Here’s a new acquaintance for you, Judith,’ and there was Master Frederick. I should have known him anywhere, and he spoke so cheerful and pleasant. A fine young gentleman he is, to be sure.”

“Why, we must be like your grandchildren!” said Henrietta; “but O! here comes Fred.”

And Judith discreetly retreated as Fred entered bearing a summons to his sister to come down to tea, saying that he could scarcely prevail on grandmamma to let him take the message instead of coming herself.

They found Queen Bee perched upon the arm of her grandpapa’s chair, with one hand holding by his collar. She had been coaxing him to say Henrietta was the prettiest girl he ever saw, and he was teasing her by declaring he should never see anything like Aunt Mary in her girlish days. Then he called up Henrietta and Fred, and asked them about their home doings, showing so distinct a knowledge of them, that they laughed and stood amazed. “Ah,” said grandpapa, “you forgot that I had a Queen Bee to enlighten me. We have plenty to tell each other, when we go buzzing over the ploughed fields together on a sunny morning, haven’t we, Busy, Busy Bee?”

Here grandmamma summoned them all to tea. She liked every one to sit round the table, and put away work and book, as for a regular meal, and it was rather a long one. Then, when all was over, grandpapa called out, “Come, young ladies, I’ve been wearying for a tune these three months. I hope you are not too tired to give us one.”

“O no, no, grandpapa!” cried Beatrice, “but you must hear Henrietta. It is a great shame of her to play so much better than I do, with all my London masters too.”

And in music the greater part of the evening was passed away. Beatrice came to her aunt’s room to wish her good-night, and to hear Henrietta’s opinions, which were of great delight, and still greater wonder—grandmamma so excessively kind, and grandpapa, O, he was a grandpapa to be proud of!