s, austerely, "and give him this; and you will refrain from gossiping
and idle talking with him, which is not convenient."

It would be impossible to describe the tone in which she says this.
Bridget, much disgusted, takes the note silently, and with sufficient
nervousness to make itself known. Indeed, she is so plainly impressed by
Kit's eloquence that the latter's heart sings aloud for joy.

"Yes, miss," she says, in a very subdued voice, and goes away with
indignant haste, to tell cook, as she passes through the kitchen, that
"Faix, Miss Kit might be her own gran'mother,--she is so ould an' quare
in her ways."

Kit meantime goes in search of Monica, with a mind stored with crafty
arguments for the beguiling of that unconscious maiden. Hearing voices
in the morning-room, she turns in there, and finds the whole family in
conclave.

Miss Priscilla is speaking.

"Yes, I certainly think hospitality of some sort should be shown them,"
she is saying, with quite an excited flush on her dear old ugly face.
"We cannot, of course, do much; but afternoon tea, now, and some
pleasant people to meet them,--and strawberries,--and a little stroll
round the gardens--eh? And, Penelope, you used to be a great hand at
claret-cup in our dear father's time; and then there is tennis. I really
think, you know, it might be done."

She quite bridles with pleasure at the bare anticipation. To entertain
once more,--again to welcome guests beneath the old roof! For many years
a nightly game of patience has been the sole dissipation the Misses
Blake have known, and here of late days they have been going hither and
thither to dances and garden-parties, and have acknowledged to
themselves secretly that the change is sweet. And now they are actually
discussing the idea of indulging in wild festivities on their own part!
Surely these children from Jerusalem have much to answer for!

"Is there going to be a party _here_, Aunt Priscilla?" asks Kit with
enlarged eyes.

"Well, my dear, we are debating the possibilities of it,--just the pros
and cons," says Miss Priscilla, precisely. "Your aunt Penelope agrees
with me that some attention is due to those young men in Clonbree
Barracks."

"You are going to ask Captain Cobbett and Mr. Ryde here! Oh, what fun!"
cries Kit, seating herself, minus invitation, on Miss Priscilla's knee,
and twining her arms round her neck. "Do you know, when with mother we
didn't dare call our souls our own; but with you