rdly knowing what to say, "I'm sure,
I--"

Mr Rothwell came to the rescue.

"My dear sir, I'm sure I shall be very glad to see you at my house; you
don't go into society much; it'll do you good to come out a little;
you'll get rid of a few of the cobwebs--from your mind"--he added
hastily, becoming painfully conscious that he was treading on rather
tender ground when he was talking about cobwebs.

"Wouldn't Mr Tankardew like to come to our juvenile party on Twelfth
Night?" asked Mark with a little dash of mischief in his voice, and a
demure look at Mary.

Mrs Franklin bit her lips, and Mr Rothwell frowned.

"A juvenile party at your house?" asked Mr Tankardew, very gravely.

"Only my son's nonsense, you must pardon him," said Mr Rothwell; "we
always have a young people's party that night, of course you would be
heartily welcome, only--"

"A juvenile party?" asked Mr Tankardew again, very slowly.

"Yes, sir," replied Mark, for the sake of saying something, and feeling
a little bit of a culprit; "twelfth cake, crackers, negus, lots of fun,
something like a breaking-up at school. Miss Franklin will be there,
and plenty more young people too."

"Something like a breaking-up," muttered the old man, "more like a
breaking-_down_, I should think--I'll come."

The effect of this announcement was perfectly overwhelming. Mr
Rothwell expressed his gratification with as much self-possession as he
could command, and named the hour. Mrs Franklin checked an exclamation
of astonishment with some difficulty. Poor Mary coughed her suppressed
laughter into her handkerchief; but as for Mark, he was forced to beat a
hasty retreat, and dashed down the stairs like a whirlwind.

The way home lay first down a narrow lane, into which they entered about
a hundred yards from Mr Tankardew's house. Here the rest of the party
found Mark behaving himself rather like a recently-escaped lunatic: he
was jumping up and down, then tossing his cap into the air, then leaning
back on the bank, holding his sides, and every now and then crying out
while the tears rolled over his cheeks.

"Oh dear! Oh dear! What _shall_ I do? Old Tanky's coming to our
juvenile party."

CHAPTER TWO.

THE JUVENILE PARTY.

Let us look into two very different houses on the morning of January
6th.

Mr Rothwell's place is called "The Firs," from a belt of those trees
which shelter the premises on the north.

All is activity at "The Firs" on Twelfth-da