rons: what would they say of her,
Mrs. Barton, were such a thing to occur? Mrs. Barton turned from the
thought in horror; and then, out of the soul of the old coquette arose,
full-fledged, the chaperon, the satellite whose light and glory is
dependent on that of the fixed star around which she revolves.

At this moment Olive, her hands filled with ferns, bounced into the
room.

'Oh! here you are, mamma! Alice told me you wanted a few ferns and
flowers to brighten up the room.'

'I hope you haven't got your feet wet, my dear; if you have, you had
better go up at once and change.'

Olive was now more than ever like her father. Her shoulders had grown
wider, and the blonde head and scarlet lips had gained a summer
brilliance and beauty.

'No, I am not wet,' she said, looking down at her boots; 'it isn't
raining; but if it were Alice would send me out all the same.'

'Where is she now?'

'Up in her room reading, I suppose; she never stirs out of it. I thought
when we came home from school the last time that we would be better
friends; but, do you know what I think: Alice is a bit sulky. What do
you think, mamma?'

To talk of Alice, to suggest that she was a little jealous, to explain
the difficulty of the position she occupied, to commiserate and lavish
much pity upon her was, no doubt, a fascinating subject of conversation,
it had burned in the brains of mother and daughter for many months; but,
too wise to compromise herself with her children, Mrs. Barton resisted
the temptation to gratify a vindictiveness that rankled in her heart.
She said:

'Alice has not yet found her _beau cavalier_; we shall see when we are
at the Castle if she will remain faithful to her books. I am afraid that
Miss Alice will then prefer some gay, dashing young officer to her
_Marmion_ and her _Lara_.'

'I should think so, indeed. She says that the only man she cares to
speak to in the county is Dr. Reed, that little frumpy fellow with his
medicines. I can't understand her. I couldn't care for anyone but an
officer.'

This was the chance Mrs. Barton required, and she instantly availed
herself of it. 'The red-coat fever!' she exclaimed, waving her hands.
'There is no one like officers _pour faire passer le temps_'

'Yes, ma!' cried Olive, proud of having understood so much French;
'doesn't time pass quickly with them?'

'It flies, my dear, and they fly away, and then we take up with another.
They are all nice; their profession mak