Abbeychurch

'You were very near having something like that pleasure yourself,' said Anne; 'it was only your arrival on Friday that saved the expense of an advertisement at the head of a column in the Times--

"R. M., return, return, return to your sorrowing friends."'

'Pray be more speedy next time,' said Rupert, 'for then I shall be even with you.'

'I am sure you have some wickedness in your head, or all your speeches would not begin with "Pray,"' said Anne; 'what do you mean?'

'What I say,' answered Rupert; 'I have just read Miss Merton's name in the paper.'

'Some other Miss Merton, you foolish boy!' said Anne.

'No, no, yourself, Anne Katherine Merton, daughter of Sir Edward,' said Rupert.

'My dear Rupert, you do not mean it!' said Anne, somewhat alarmed.

'I saw it with my eyes,' said Rupert.

'But where?'

'In the Abbeychurch Reporter, or whatever you call it.'

'Oh!' said Anne, looking relieved, 'we are probably all there, as having been at the Consecration.'

'The company there present, are, I believe, honoured with due mention of Sir Edward Merton and family,' said Rupert; 'but I am speaking of another part of the paper where Miss Merton is especially noted, alone in her glory.'

'In what paper did you say, Rupert?' said Lady Merton.

'The Abbeychurch Reporter,' said he.

'Mr. Higgins's paper!' said Anne. 'O Mamma, I see it all--that horrible Mechanics'

Institute!'

'Why, Anne,' said her brother, 'I thought you would be charmed with your celebrity.'

'But where have you seen it, Rupert?' said Anne; 'poor Lizzie, has she heard it?'

'Mr. Walker came in just now in great dismay, to shew it to Mr. Woodbourne,'

said Rupert; 'and they had a very long discussion on the best means of contradicting it, to which I listened with gravity, quite heroic, I assure you, considering all things. Then my uncle carried it off to shew it to his wife, and I came up to congratulate you.'

'I am sure it is no subject of congratulation,' said Anne; 'where was Papa all the time?'

'Gone to call on Mr. Somerville,' said Rupert.

'But I thought Lizzie had told her father,' said Lady Merton.

'She told Mrs. Woodbourne directly,' said Anne; 'but she could not get at my uncle, and I suppose Mrs. Woodbourne had not told him. What an annoyance for them all! I hope Mr. Woodbourne is not very much displeased.'

'He was more inclined to laugh than to be angry, said Rupert; 'and it is indeed a choice morceau, worthy of Augustus Mills, Esquire, himself. I hope Mr.

Woodbourne will bring it down-stairs, that you may explain to me the rare part which describes the decrepid old Giant Chivalry, sitting in his den, unable to do any mischief, only biting his nails at the passers by, like the Giant Pope in the Pilgrim's Progress.'

Anne could not help laughing. 'But, Rupert,' said she, 'pray do not say too much about it in the evening. I am not at all sure that Papa will not be very much displeased to see his name figuring in the paper as if he was a supporter of this horrid place. I wish, as Lizzie says, that I had cut my head off before I went, for it has really come to be something serious. Papa's name will seem to sanction their proceedings.'

'My dear,' said Lady Merton, 'you may comfort yourself by remembering that your Papa's character is too well known to be affected by such an assertion as this; most people will not believe it, and those who do, can only think that his daughter is turning radical, not himself.'

'Ay, this is the first public decisive act of Miss Merton's life,' said Rupert; 'no wonder so much is made of it.'

'But, Rupert,' said Anne, 'I only beg of you not to say anything about it to Lizzie.'

'You cut me off from everything diverting,' said Rupert; 'you are growing quite impertinent, but I will punish you some day when you do not expect it.'

'I do not care what you do when we are at home,' said Anne; 'I defy you to do your worst then; only spare Lizzie and me while we are here.'

'Spare Lizzie, indeed!' said Rupert; 'she does not want your protection, she is able enough to take care of herself.'

'I believe Rupert's five wits generally go off halting, from the sharp encounter of hers,' said Lady Merton.

'And therefore he wants to gain a shabby advantage over a wounded enemy,'

said Anne; 'I give you up, you recreant; your name should have been Oliver, instead of Rupert.'

'There is an exemplification of the lecture,' said Rupert; 'impotent chivalry biting its nails with disdain and despite.'

'Well, Mamma,' said Anne, 'since chivalry is impotent, I shall leave you to tame that foul monster with something else; I will have no more to do with him.'

She went to fetch her work out of her bed-room, but on seeing Elizabeth there, her pocket-handkerchief in her hand, and traces of tears on her face, was hastily retreating, when her cousin said, 'Come in,' and added, 'So, Anne, you have heard, the murder is out.'

'The Mechanics' Institute, you mean,' said Anne, 'not Fido.'

'Not Fido,' said Elizabeth; 'but the rest of the story is out; I mean, it is not known who killed Cock Robin, and I do not suppose it ever will be; but the Mechanics'

Institute affair is in the newspaper, and it is off my mind, for I have had it all out with Papa. And, Anne, he was so very kind, that I do not know how to think of it.

He made light of the annoyance to himself on purpose to console me, and--but,'

added she, smiling, while the tears came into her eyes again, 'I must not talk of him, or I shall go off into another cry, and not be fit for the reading those unfortunate children have been waiting for so long. Tell me, are my eyes very unfit to be seen?'

'Not so very bad,' said Anne.

'Well, I cannot help it if they are,' said Elizabeth; 'come down and let us read.'

They found Helen alone in the school-room, where she had been sitting ever since breakfast-time, thinking that the penny club was occupying Elizabeth most unusually long this morning.

'Helen,' said Elizabeth, as she came into the room, 'Papa knows the whole story, and I can see that he is as much pleased with your conduct as I am sure you deserve.'

All was explained in a few words. Helen was now by no means inclined to triumph in her better judgement, for, while she had been waiting, alone with her drawing, she had been thinking over all that had passed since the unfortunate Friday evening, wondering that she could ever have believed that Elizabeth was not overflowing with affection, and feeling very sorry for the little expression of triumph which she had allowed to escape her in her ill-temper on Saturday.

'Lizzie,' said she, 'will you forgive me for that very unkind thing I said to you?'

Elizabeth did not at first recollect what it was, and when she did, she only said,

'Nonsense, Helen, I never consider what people say when they are cross, any more than when they are drunk.'

Anne was very much diverted by the idea of Elizabeth's experience of what drunken people said, or of drunkenness and ill-temper being allied, and her merriment restored the spirits of her cousins, and took off from what Elizabeth called the 'awfulness of a grand pardoning scene.' Helen was then sent to summon the children to their lessons, which were happily always supposed to begin later on a Monday than on any other day of the week.

The study door was open, and as she passed by, her father called her into the room. 'Helen,' said he, 'Elizabeth tells me that you acted the part of a sensible and obedient girl the other evening, and I am much pleased to hear it.'

Helen stood for a few moments, too much overcome with delight and surprise to be able to speak. Mr. Woodbourne went on writing, and she bounded upstairs with something more of a hop, skip, and jump, than those steps had known from her foot since she had been an inhabitant of the nursery herself, thinking 'What would he say if he knew that I only refused to go, out of a spirit of opposition?' yet feeling the truth of what Anne had said, that her father's praise, rarely given, and only when well earned, was worth all the Stauntons' admiration fifty times over.