f it."

"I wish that all radicals were like Miss Beatrice," said Geoffrey, who
was feeling exceedingly uncomfortable, with a feeble attempt at polite
jocosity. But nobody seemed to hear him. Elizabeth, who was now fairly
in a rage, a faint flush upon her pale cheeks, her light eyes all
ashine, and her thin fingers clasped, stood fronting her beautiful
sister, and breathing spite at every pore. But it was easy for Geoffrey
who was watching her to see that it was not her sister's views she was
attacking; it was her sister. It was that soft strong loveliness and the
glory of that face; it was the deep gentle mind, erring from its very
greatness, and the bright intellect which lit it like a lamp; it was the
learning and the power that, give them play, would set a world aflame,
as easily as they did the heart of the slow-witted hermit squire, whom
Elizabeth coveted--these were the things that Elizabeth hated, and
bitterly assailed.

Accustomed to observe, Geoffrey saw this instantly, and then glanced
at the father. The old man was frightened; clearly he was afraid of
Elizabeth, and dreaded a scene. He stood fidgeting his feet about, and
trying to find something to say, as he glanced apprehensively at his
elder daughter, through his thin hanging hair.

Lastly, Geoffrey looked at Beatrice, who was indeed well worth looking
at. Her face was quite pale and the clear grey eyes shone out beneath
their dark lashes. She had risen, drawing herself to her full height,
which her exquisite proportions seemed to increase, and was looking at
her sister. Presently she said one word and one only, but it was enough.

"_Elizabeth._"

Her sister opened her lips to speak again, but hesitated, and changed
her mind. There was something in Beatrice's manner that checked her.

"Well," she said at length, "you should not irritate me so, Beatrice."

Beatrice made no reply. She only turned towards Geoffrey, and with a
graceful little bow, said:

"Mr. Bingham, I am sure that you will forgive this scene. The fact is,
we all slept badly last night, and it has not improved our tempers."

There was a pause, of which Mr. Granger took a hurried and rather
undignified advantage.

"Um, ah," he said. "By the way, Beatrice, what was it I wanted to say?
Ah, I know--have you written, I mean written out, that sermon for next
Sunday? My daughter," he added, addressing Geoffrey in explanation--"um,
copies my sermons for me. She writes a very good hand----"