ment of her favourite pupil, and, in truth, Maria
and Bertha had so ineffably much to narrate, that her attention would
have been sufficiently engrossed to hinder her observation of the
symptoms, even had the good lady been as keen and experienced in love as
in science.

Poor little Phoebe! equable as she was, she was in a great perturbation
when, four days before Christmas, she knew that Miss Charlecote, with
Owen Sandbrook and Humfrey Randolf, had arrived at the Holt. What was so
natural as for her to go at once to talk over the two weddings with her
dear old friend? Yes, but did her dear old friend want her, when these
two young men had put an end to her solitude? Was she only making Miss
Charlecote an excuse? She would wait in hopes that one of the others
would ask if she were going to the Holt! If so, it could not but be
natural and proper--if not-- This provoking throbbing of her heart
showed that it was not only for Honor Charlecote that she wished to go.

That ring at the bell! What an abominable goose she was to find a flush
of expectation in her cheek! And after all it was only Sir John. He had
found that his son had heard nothing from the Holt that morning, and had
come in to ask if she thought a call would be acceptable. 'I knew they
were come home,' he said, 'for I saw them at the station yesterday. I
did not show myself, for I did not know how poor young Sandbrook might
like it. But who have they got with them?'

'Mr. Randolf, Owen Sandbrook's Canadian friend.'

'Did I not hear he was some sort of relation?'

'Yes; his mother was a Charlecote.'

'Ha! that accounts for it. Seeing him with her, I could almost have
thought it was thirty years ago, and that it was my dear old friend.'

Phoebe could have embraced Sir John. She could not conceal her glow of
delight so completely that Bertha did not laugh and say, 'Mr. Charlecote
is what the Germans would call Phoebe's _Bild_. She always blushes and
looks conscious if he is mentioned.'

Sir John laughed, but with some emotion, and Phoebe hastily turned her
still more blushing face away. Certainly, if Phoebe had had any
prevision of her present state of mind, she never would have bought that
chiffonier.

When Sir John had sufficiently admired the details of the choice little
drawing-room, and had been shown by the eager sisters all over the house,
he asked if Phoebe would walk up with him to the Holt. He had hoped his
eldest son, who had