to be entertained."

"Indeed," exclaimed Ethel. "What can you do?"

"What I can," said Meta, laughing. "Whatever is not 'a horrid nuisance'
to him."

"It would be a horrid nuisance to me," said Ethel bluntly, "if my
brothers wanted me to amuse them all the morning."

"Your brothers, oh!" said Meta, as if that were very different;
"besides, you have so much more to do. I am only too glad and grateful
when George will come to me at all. You see I have always been too young
to be his companion, or find out what suited him, and now he is so very
kind and good-natured to me."

"But what becomes of your business?"

"I get time, one way or another. There is the evening, very often, when
I have sung both him and papa to sleep. I had two hours, all to myself,
yesterday night," said Meta, with a look of congratulation, "and I had a
famous reading of Thirlwall's 'Greece.'"

"I should think that such evenings were as bad as the mornings."

"Come, Ethel, don't make me naughty. Large families, like yours, may
have merry, sociable evenings; but, I do assure you, ours are very
pleasant. We are so pleased to have George at home; and we really
hope that he is taking a fancy to the dear Grange. You can't think how
delighted papa is to have him content to stay quietly with us so long. I
must call him to go back now, though, or papa will be kept waiting."

When Ethel had watched the tall, ponderous brother help the bright fairy
sister to fly airily into her saddle, and her sparkling glance, and wave
of the hand, as she cantered off, contrasting with his slow bend,
and immobility of feature, she could not help saying that Meta's life
certainly was not too charming, with her fanciful, valetudinarian
father, and that stupid, idealess brother.

"He is very amiable and good-natured," interposed Norman.

"Ha! Norman, you are quite won by his invitation to shoot! How he
despised you for refusing--as much as you despised him."

"Speak for yourself," said Norman. "You fancy no sensible man likes
shooting, but you are all wrong. Some of our best men are capital
sportsmen. Why, there is Ogilvie--you know what he is. When I bring him
down here, you will see that there is no sort of sport that he is not
keen after."

"This poor fellow will never be keen after anything," said Dr. May. "I
pity him! Existence seems hard work to him!"

"We shall have baby calling him 'the detestable' next," said Ethel.
"What a famous set down she gave him.