A Change at the Parsonage

"What could presumptuous hope inspire."--Rokeby.

There had been the usual foretaste of winter, rather sharp for
Avonmouth, and though a trifle to what it was in less sheltered places,
quite enough to make the heliotropes sorrowful, strip the fig-trees, and
shut Colonel Keith up in the library. Then came the rain, and the result
was that the lawn of Myrtlewood became too sloppy for the most ardent
devotees of croquet; indeed, as Bessie said, the great charm of the
sport was that one could not play it above eight months in the year.

The sun came back again, and re-asserted the claim of Avonmouth to be
a sort of English Mentone; but drying the lawn was past its power, and
Conrade and Francis were obliged to console themselves by the glory
of taking Bessie Keith for a long ride. They could not persuade their
mother to go with them, perhaps because she had from her nursery-window
sympathized with Cyril's admiration of the great white horse that was
being led round to the door of Gowanbrae.

She said she must stay at home, and make the morning calls that the
charms of croquet had led her to neglect, and in about half an hour
from that time she was announced in Miss Williams' little parlour,
and entered with a hurried, panting, almost pursued look, a frightened
glance in her eyes, and a flush on her cheek, such as to startle both
Ermine and the Colonel.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as if still too much perturbed to know quite what
she was saying, "I--I did not mean to interrupt you."