mistress, kindly. "I regret to
say I have noticed several signs of ill temper about Jane of late."

Here Jane looks crestfallen, and the footman triumphant.

"I wish you would _both_ try to improve," goes on Dulce, in a tone meant
to be still dignified, but which might almost be termed entreating.
"_Do_ try. You will find it so much pleasanter in the long run."

Both culprits, though silent, show unmistakable signs of giving in.

"If you only knew how unhappy these endless dissensions make me, I am
sure you _would_ try," says Miss Blount, earnestly, which, of course,
ends all things. The maid begins to weep copiously behind the daintiest
of aprons; while the footman mutters, huskily:

"Then I _will_ try, ma'am," with unlooked-for force.

"Oh, _thank_ you," says Dulce, with pretty gratitude, under cover of
which the two belligerents make their escape.

"Well done," says Sir Mark at this moment; "really, Dulce, I didn't
believe it was in you. Such dignity, such fervor, such tact, such
pathos! We are all very nearly in tears. I would almost promise not to
blow up Jane myself, if you asked me like that."

"What a shame!" exclaims Dulce, starting and growing crimson, as she
becomes aware they have all been listening to her little lecture. "I
call it right down _mean_ to go listening to people behind their backs.
It is horrid! And you, too, Portia! So shabby!"

"Now who is scolding," says Portia; "and after your charming sermon,
too, to Jennings, all about the evil effects of losing one's temper."

"If you only knew how unhappy it makes us," says Dicky Browne, mimicking
Dulce's own manner of a moment since so exactly that they all laugh
aloud; and Dulce, forgetting her chagrin, laughs, too, even more
heartily than they do.

"You shan't have one bit of my jam," she says, threatening Dicky with a
huge silver spoon; "see if you do! After all, cook," turning to that
portly matron, "I think I'm tired to-day. Suppose you make this jam;
and I can make some more some other time."

As she says this, she unfastens both the aprons and flings them far from
her, and pulls down her sleeves over her pretty white arms, to Gower's
everlasting regret, who cannot take his eyes off them, and to whom they
are a "joy forever."

"Come, let us go up-stairs again," says Dulce to her assembled friends,
who have all suddenly grown very grave.

In silence they follow her, until once more the hall is gained and the
kitchen forgotten. Then