y morning.

It is just noon, and Mrs Rothwell and her daughters are assembled in
the drawing-room making elaborate preparations for the evening with
holly, and artificial flowers and mottoes, and various cunning and
beautiful devices. On a little table by the grand piano stands a tray
with a decanter of sherry, a glass jug filled (and likely to remain so)
with water, and a few biscuits. Mrs Rothwell is lying back in an
elegant easy-chair, looking flushed and languid. Her three daughters,
Jane, Florence, and Alice, are standing near her, all looking rather
weary.

"What a bore these parties are!" exclaimed the eldest. "I'm sick to
death of them. I shall be tired out before the evening begins."

"So shall I," chimes in her sister Florence. "I hate having to be civil
to those odious little frights, the Graysons, and their cousins. Why
can't they stay at home and knock one another's heads about in the
nursery?"

"Very aimiable of you I must say, my dears," drawls out Mrs Rothwell.
"Come, you must exert yourselves, you know it only comes once a year."

"Ay, once too often, mamma!"

"I'm sure," cries little Alice, "I shall enjoy the party very much:
it'll be jolly, as Mark says, only I wish I wasn't so tired just now:
ah! Dear me!"

"Oh! Child, don't yawn!" says her mother; "you'll make me more fatigued
than I am, and I'm quite sinking now. Jane, do just pour me out another
glass of sherry. Thank you, I can sip a little as I want it. Take some
yourself, my dear, it'll do you good."

"And me too, mamma," cries Alice, stretching out her hand.

"Really, Alice, you're too young; you mustn't be getting into wanting
wine so early in the day, it'll spoil your digestion."

"Oh! Nonsense, mamma! Everybody takes it now; it'll do me good, you'll
see. Mark often gives me wine; he's a dear good brother is Mark."

Mrs Rothwell sighs, and takes a sip of sherry: she is beginning to
brighten up.

"What in the world did your father mean by asking old Mr Tankardew to
the party to-night?" she exclaims, turning to her elder daughters.

"Mean! Mamma--you may well ask that: the old scarecrow! They say he
looks like a bag of dust and rags."

"Mark says," cries her sister, "that he's just the image of a stuffed
Guy Fawkes, which the boys used to carry about London on a chair."

"Well, my dears, we must make the best of matters, we can't help it
now."

"Oh! I daresay it'll be capital fun," exclaims Alice; "I shall