th a Bradshaw, and who did _not_ tell them how intolerably
cross Cilly had been all the morning.

Nor would any one have suspected it who had seen her, last of all, come
down at a quarter to eleven, in the most exultant spirits, talking the
height of rodomontade with the gentlemen guests, and dallying with her
breakfast, while Phoebe's heart was throbbing at the sight of two grave
figures, her brother and the curate, slowly marching up and down the
cloister, in waiting till this was over.

And there sat Lucilla inventing adventures for an imaginary tour to be
brought out on her return by the name of 'Girls in Galway'--'From the
Soiree to the Salmon'--'Flirts and Fools-heads,' as Owen and Charles
discontentedly muttered to each other, or, as Mr. Calthorp proposed, 'The
Angels and the Anglers.' The ball was to be the opening chapter. Lord
William entreated for her costume as the frontispiece, and Mr. Calthorp
begged her to re-assume it, and let her cousin photograph her on the
spot.

Lucilla objected to the impracticability of white silk, the inconvenience
of unpacking the apparatus, the nuisance of dressing, the lack of time;
but Rashe was delighted with the idea, and made light of all, and the
gentlemen pressed her strongly, till with rather more of a consent than a
refusal, she rose from her nearly untasted breakfast, and began to move
away.

'Cilla,' said Mr. Prendergast, at the window, 'can I have a word with
you?'

'At your service,' she answered, as she came out to him, and saw that
Robert had left him. 'Only be quick; they want to photograph me in my
ball-dress.'

'You won't let them do it, though,' said the curate.

'White comes out hideous,' said Lucilla; 'I suppose you would not have a
copy, if I took one off for you?'

'No; I don't like those visitors of yours well enough to see you turned
into a merry-andrew to please them.'

'So that's what Robert Fulmort told you I did last night,' said Lucilla,
blushing at last, and thoroughly.

'No, indeed; you didn't?' he said, regarding her with an astonished
glance.

'I _did_ wear a dress trimmed with salmon-flies, because of a bet with
Lord William,' said Lucilla, the suffusion deepening on brow, cheek, and
throat, as the confiding esteem of her fatherly friend effected what
nothing else could accomplish. She would have given the world to have
justified his opinion of his late rector's little daughter, and her
spirits seemed gone, though the worst h