Mrs.Hudson sat all day with a little meek, apprehensive smile.

She was afraid of an "accident," though unless Miss Striker (who indeed was a little of a romp) should push Roderick into the lake, it was hard to see what accident could occur.

Mrs.Hudson was as neat and crisp and uncrumpled at the end of the festival as at the beginning.

Mr.Whitefoot, who but a twelvemonth later became a convert to episcopacy and was already cultivating a certain conversational sonority, devoted himself to Cecilia.

He had a little book in his pocket, out of which he read to her at intervals, lying stretched at her feet, and it was a lasting joke with Cecilia, afterwards, that she would never tell what Mr.Whitefoot's little book had been.