"I see you are having an illumination in honor of us." "Yes," answers Bobby, kindly entering into my humor, "and the reason why father did not come to meet you at the gate was that he was busy lighting the candles." My spirits are so dashed by the more implied than expressed disapproval of my brethren, that I resolve to defer the presentation of the bag till to-morrow, or perhaps--to-morrow being Sunday, always rather a dark day in the paternal calendar--till Monday.
Dinner is over, and, as it is clearly impossible to stay in-doors on such a night, we are all out again.

The three elders--father, mother, and husband--sitting sedately on three rustic chairs on the dry gravel-walk, and we young ones lying about in different attitudes of restful ease, on rugs and cloaks that we have spread upon the dewy grass.

We are not far off from the others, but just so far as that our talk should be out of ear-shot.

In my own mind, I am not aware that Sir Roger would far rather be with _us_, listening to our quick gabble, and laughing with us at our threadbare jests, which are rewarded with mirth so disproportioned to their size, than interchanging sober talk with the friend of his infancy.

Once or twice I see his gray eyes straying a little wistfully toward us, but he makes no slightest movement toward joining us.