t?" he says, somewhat gloomily, but
loading himself at once, with ostentatious haste (in memory of my former
reproof), with my bag, parasol, and novel.

"The day after--the day after--the day after to-morrow," say I, smiling
cheerfully up in his dismal face. "You may fancy us just turning in at
the park-gates--by-the-by, have you any message to send to the boys, to
Barbara?"

"None to the boys," he answers, half smiling, too. "I hate boys: you may
give my love to Barbara if you like, and if you are quite sure that she
is like the St. Catherine."

"Wait till you see her," say I, oracularly.

"But when _shall_ I see her?" he asks, roused into an eagerness which I
think promises admirably for Barbara; "when are you coming home,
really?"

"Keep a good lookout at your lodge," I say, gayly, "and you will no
doubt see us arrive some fine day, looking very foolish, most
probably--crawling along like snails, dragged by our tenants."

"Were you _ever_ known to answer a plain question plainly since you were
born?" he cries, petulantly. "When are you likely to come _really_?"

"'I know not! What avails to know?'" reply I, pompously spouting a line
out of some forgotten poem that has lurked in my memory, and now struts
out, to the anger and discomfiture of Mr. Musgrave.

"Ah! here are the doors opening."

Everybody pours out on to the platform, and into the empty and expectant
train.

Sir Roger and I get into a carriage--_not_ a _coupe_ this time--and
dispose our myriad parcels above our heads, under our feet. Trucks roll,
and porters bawl past; luggage is violently shot into vans. The last
belated, panting passenger has got in. The doors are slammed-to. Off we
go! The train is already in motion when the young man jumps on the step
and thrusts in his hand for one parting shake.

"_Mon tout_," say I, screwing up my face into a crying shape, and
speaking in a squeaky, pseudo-tearful voice, "_je ne saurai vous le
dire!_"

Then he is hustled off by an indignant guard and three porters, and we
see him no more. I throw myself back into my corner laughing.

"General," say I, "I think your young friend is nearly as soft-hearted
as the girl in Tennyson who was

'Tender over drowning flies.'

He looked as if he were going to _weep_, did not he? and what on earth
about?"

CHAPTER XV.

"How mother, when we used to stun
Her head wi' all our noisy fun,
Did wish us all a-gone from home;
But now th