y love you--and they were
disappointed--and----"

"They'll have to get through a good deal of disappointment," says
Terence, still fuming. "What right have they to make me out a Sir
Galahad in their imaginations? I'd perfectly _hate_ to be a Sir Galahad;
and so I tell them." This is not strictly correct as the Misses Blake
are out of hearing. "And as for their love, they may keep it, if it only
means blowing a fellow up for nothing."

"Aunt Penelope was just as bad," says Kit. "I really"--with dignified
contempt--"felt quite _ashamed_ of her!"

* * * * *

Miss Priscilla keeps a diary, in which she most faithfully records all
that happens in every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days of
every year.

About this time there may be seen in it an entry such as follows:

"_Saturday, July 3._--I fear Terence told a LIE! He _certainly_
equivocated! Penelope and I have done our best to discover the real
owner of THE gun, but as yet have failed. The secret rests with Terence,
and to force his confidence would be unchristian; but it _may_ transpire
in _time_."

After this come sundry other jottings, such as--

"_Monday, July 5._--Past four. Fanny Stack called. Penelope in the
garden, as usual. All the trouble of entertaining falling upon _my_
hands. Still, I do not repine. Providence is good; and Penelope of
course, dear soul, should be allowed the recreation that pertains to her
garden. And, indeed, a sweet place she makes of it."

After this again comes a third paragraph:

"_Tuesday, July 6._--Terence again most wilful, and Kit somewhat saucy;
yet my heart yearns over these children. God grant they be guided by a
tender hand along the straight and narrow way!"

* * * * *

It is the next day, July 7, and the two Misses Blake, standing in the
dining-room, are discussing Terence again. They have had a great shock,
these two old ladies, in the discovery of a duplicity that they in their
simplicity have magnified fourfold. How is it possible they should
remember how _they_ felt thirty years ago?

"I doubt we must keep a tight hand upon him, Penelope," says Miss
Priscilla, sorrowfully. "The rector is very lax. He goes to him day by
day, but beyond Greek and Latin seems to imbibe little else. And
_morals_ are the groundwork of all, and surely superior to the languages
spoken by those who believed in heathen gods. I wonder at the rector, I
must say. Bu