George Desmond. _His_ was the traitorous mind."

"I daresay he has had his own punishment," says Miss Penelope, mildly.

"I hope so," says Miss Priscilla, sternly. Then, with a return to
sadness, "Twenty years ago it is, and now she has been a twelvemonth
dead and in her quiet grave."

"Oh, _don't_, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, in a broken voice,
burying her face in her pocket-handkerchief.

"Ah! well, well, we had better look to the future; the past has no
charms for us," says Miss Priscilla, with a ghastly attempt at
cheerfulness. "Let me see," referring through a pair of gold-rimmed
spectacles to the letter in her hand: "That the dear children have
landed we know, and--h'm--yes, this very--yes, plainly, _very_
respectable person, the captain, writes to say they will be with us
to-morrow."

"_To-morrow!_ and that was written yesterday," says Miss Penelope,
putting down her handkerchief and starting once more into life. "Why, at
that rate, my dear Priscilla, they will be here _to-day_!"

"Bless me! you don't mean it!" exclaims Miss Priscilla, again applying
her glasses to the letter. "Monday, and this is Tuesday: yes, sure
enough you are right. What a head you have, my dear Penelope!"

"Oh, not at all," says Miss Penelope, flushing with pleasure at this
tribute to her intellect.

"To-day,--in a few hours. Now, what is to be done about the beds?"

"But surely they are aired?"

"Aired?--yes. They have been aired every day regularly for the past two
months, ever since I first heard the children were likely to come to us.
But still I am uncertain about them. I know they will want hot jars; and
then the rooms, they will want flowers and many things--and----"

"Can't I help you?" demands Miss Penelope, eagerly.

"My dear girl, not at all," says Miss Priscilla, with a calmly superior
air, arising from the fact that she is quite eighteen months her senior.
"You can assist me with your valuable counsel, but I would not have you
disturb yourself for worlds. You must be cool and collected, and hold
yourself in readiness to receive them when they come. They will be shy,
no doubt, coming here all the way from Palestine, and it must be your
part to make them feel quite at home."

This to Miss Penelope, who is afraid of strangers in any guise, appears
such a fearful mission that she pales, and says, tremblingly,--

"But you too will be present at our first meeting? I must indeed _beg_
you to be present, my