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"Be not over-exquisite

To cast the fashion of uncertain evils."—Milton.

Through the open windows the merry-making sun is again dancing, its bright rays making still more dazzling the glory of the snowy table-cloth. The great silver urn is hissing and fighting with all around, as though warning his mistress to use him, as he is not one to be trifled with; while at the lower end of the table, exactly opposite Sir Guy's plate, lies the post upon a high salver, ready to the master's hand, as has been the custom at Chetwoode for generations.

Evidently the family is late for breakfast. As a rule, the Chetwoode family always is late for breakfast—just sufficiently so to make them certain everything will be quite ready by the time they get down.

Ten o'clock rings out mysteriously from the handsome marble clock upon the chimney-piece, and precisely three minutes afterward the door is thrown open to admit an elderly lady, tall and fair, and still beautiful.

She walks with a slow, rather stately step, and in spite of her years carries her head high. Upon this head rests the daintiest of morning caps, all white lace and delicate ribbon bows, that match in color her trailing gown. Her hands, small and tapering, are covered with rings; otherwise she wears no adornment of any kind. There is a benignity about her that goes straight to all hearts. Children adore her, dogs fawn upon her, young men bring to her all their troubles—the evil behavior of their tailors and their mistresses are alike laid before her.

Now, finding the room empty, and knowing it to be four minutes after ten, she says to herself, "The first!" with a little surprise and much pardonable pride, and seats herself with something of an air before the militant urn. When we are old it is so sweet to us to be younger than the young, when we are young it is so sweet to us to be just vice versa. Oh, foolish youth!

An elderly butler, who has evidently seen service (in every sense of the word), and who is actually steeped in respectability up to his port-wine nose, hovers around the breakfast, adjusting this dish affectionately, and straightening that, until all is carefully awry, when he leaves the room with a sigh of satisfaction.

Perhaps Lady Chetwoode's self-admiration would have grown beyond bounds, but that just at this instant voices in the hall distract her thoughts. The sounds make her face brighten and bring a smile to her lips. "The boys" are coming. She draws the teacups a little nearer to her and makes a gentle fuss over the spoons. A light laugh echoes through the hall; it is answered and then the door once more opens, and her two sons enter, Cyril, being the youngest, naturally coming first.

On seeing his mother he is pleased to make a gesture indicative of the most exaggerated surprise.

"Now, who could have anticipated it?" he says. "Her gracious majesty already assembled, while her faithful subjects—— Well," with a sudden change of tone, "for my part I call it downright shabby of people to scramble down-stairs before other people merely for the sake of putting them to the blush."

"Lazy boy! no wonder you are ashamed of yourself when you look at the clock," says Lady Chetwoode, smiling fondly as she returns his greeting.

"Ashamed! Pray do not misunderstand me. I have arrived at my twenty-sixth year without ever having mastered the meaning of that word. I flatter myself I am a degree beyond that."

"Last night's headache quite gone, mother?" asks Sir Guy, bending over her chair to kiss her; an act he performs tenderly, and as though the doing of it is sweet to him.

"Quite, my dear," replies she; and there is perhaps the faintest, the very faintest, accession of warmth in her tone, an almost imperceptible increase of kindliness in her smile as she speaks to her eldest son.

"That's right," says he, patting her gently on the shoulder; after which he goes over to his own seat and takes up the letters lying before him.

"Positively I never thought of the post," says Lady Chetwoode. "And here I have been for quite five minutes with nothing to do. I might as well have been digesting my correspondence, if there is any for me."

"One letter for you; five, as usual, for Cyril; one for me," says Guy. "All Cyril's." Examining them critically at arm's length. "Written evidently by very young women."

"Yes, they will write to me," returns Cyril, receiving them with a sigh and regarding them with careful scrutiny. "It is nothing short of disgusting," he says presently, singling out one of the letters with his first finger. "This is the fourth she has written me this week, and as yet it is only Friday. I won't be able to bear it much longer; I shall certainly make a stand one of these days."

"I would if I were you," says Guy, laughing.

"I have just heard from Lilian Chesney," suddenly says Lady Chetwoode, speaking as though a bombshell had fallen in their midst. "And she is really coming here next week!"

"No!" says Guy, without meaning contradiction, which at the moment is far from him.

"Yes," replies his mother, somewhat faintly.

"Another!" murmurs Cyril, weakly—he being the only one of the three who finds any amusement in the situation. "Well, at all events, she can't write to me, as we shall be under the same roof; and I shall dismiss the very first servant who brings me a billet-doux. How pleased you do look, Guy! And no wonder;—a whole live ward, and all to yourself. Lucky you!"

"It is hard on you, mother," says Guy, "but it can't be helped. When I promised, I made sure her father would have lived for years to come."

"You did what was quite right," says Lady Chetwoode, who, if Guy were to commit a felony, would instantly say it was the only proper course to be pursued. "And it might have been much worse. Her mother's daughter cannot fail to be a lady in the best sense of the word."

"I'm sure I hope she won't, then," says Cyril, who all this time has been carefully laying in an uncommonly good breakfast. "If there is one thing I hate, it is a young lady. Give me a girl."

"But, my dear, what an extraordinary speech! Surely a girl may be a young lady."

"Yes, but unfortunately a young lady isn't always a girl. My experience of the former class is, that, no matter what their age, they are as old as the hills, and know considerably more than they ought to know."

"And just as we had got rid of one ward so successfully we must needs get another," says Lady Chetwoode, with a plaintive sigh. "Dear Mabel! she was certainly very sweet, and I was excessively fond of her, but I do hope this new-comer will not be so troublesome."

"I hope she will be as pleasant to talk to and as good to look at," says Cyril. "I confess I missed Mab awfully; I never felt so down in my life as when she declared her intention of marrying Tom Steyne."

"I never dreamed the marriage would have turned out so well," says Lady Chetwoode, in a pleased tone. "She was such an—an—unreasonable girl. But it is wonderful how well she gets on with a husband."

"Flirts always make the best wives. You forget that, mother."

"And what a coquette she was? If Lilian Chesney resembles her, I don't know what I shall do. I am getting too old to take care of pretty girls."

"Perhaps Miss Chesney is ugly."

"I hope not, my dear," says Lady Chetwoode, with a strong shudder. "Let her be anything but that. I can't bear ugly women. No, her mother was lovely. I used to think"—relapsing again into the plaintive style—"that one ward in a lifetime would be sufficient, and now we are going to have another."

"It is all Guy's fault," says Cyril. "He does get himself up so like the moral Pecksniff. There is a stern and dignified air about him would deceive a Machiavelli, and takes the hearts of parents by storm. Poor Mr. Chesney, who never even saw him, took him on hearsay as his only child's guardian. This solitary fact shows how grossly he has taken in society in general. He is every bit as immoral as the rest of us, only——"

"Immoral! My dear Cyril——" interrupts Lady Chetwoode, severely.

"Well, let us say frivolous. It has just the same meaning nowadays, and sounds nicer. But he looks a 'grave and reverend,' if ever there was one. Indeed, his whole appearance is enough to make any passer-by stop short and say, 'There goes a good young man.'"

"I'm sure I hope not," says Guy, half offended, wholly disgusted. "I should be inclined to shoot any one who told me I was a 'good young man.' I have no desire to pose as such: my ambition does not lie that way."

"I don't believe you know what you are saying, either of you," says Lady Chetwoode, who, though accustomed to them, can never entirely help showing surprise at their sentiments and expressions every now and then. "I should be sorry to think everybody did not know you to be (as I do) good as gold."

"Thank you, Madre. One compliment from you is worth a dozen from any one else," says Cyril. "Any news, Guy? You seem absorbed. I cannot tell you how I admire any one who takes an undisguised interest in his correspondence. Now I"—gazing at his five unopened letters—"cannot get up the feeling to save my life. Guy,"—reproachfully—"don't you see your mother is dying of curiosity?"

"The letter is from Trant," says Guy, looking up from the closely written sheet before him. "He wants to know if we will take a tenant for 'The Cottage.' 'A lady'"—reading from the letter—"'who has suffered much, and who wishes for quietness and retirement from the world.'"

"I should recommend a convent under the circumstances," says Cyril. "It would be the very thing for her. I don't see why she should come down here to suffer, and put us all in the dumps, and fill our woods with her sighs and moans."

"Is she young?" asks Lady Chetwoode, anxiously.

"No—I don't know, I'm sure. I should think not, by Trant's way of mentioning her. 'An old friend,' he says, though, of course, that might mean anything."

"Married?"

"Yes. A widow."

"Dear me!" says Lady Chetwoode, distastefully. "A most objectionable class of people. Always in the way, and—er—very designing, and that."

"If she is anything under forty she will want to marry Guy directly," Cyril puts in, with an air of conviction. "If I were you, Guy, I should pause and consider before I introduced such a dangerous ingredient so near home. Just fancy, mother, seeing Guy married to a woman probably older than you!"

"Yes—I shouldn't wonder," says Lady Chetwoode, nervously. "My dear child, do nothing in a hurry. Tell Colonel Trant you—you—do not care about letting The Cottage just at present."

"Nonsense, mother! How can you be so absurd? Don't you think I may be considered proof against designing widows at twenty-nine? Never mind Cyril's talk. I dare say he is afraid for himself. Indeed, the one thing that makes me hesitate about obliging Trant is the knowledge of how utterly incapable my poor brother is of taking care of himself."

"It is only too true," says Cyril, resignedly. "I feel sure if the widow is flouted by you she will revenge herself by marrying me. Guy, as you are strong, be merciful."

"After all, the poor creature may be quite old, and we are frightening ourselves unnecessarily," says Lady Chetwoode, in all sincerity.

At this both Guy and Cyril laugh in spite of themselves.

"Are you really afraid, mother?" asks Cyril, fondly. "What a goose you are about your 'boys'! Are we always to be children in your eyes? Not that I wonder at your horror of widows. Even the immortal Weller shared your sentiments, and warned his 'Samivel' against them. Never mind, mother; console yourself. I for one swear by all that is lovely never to seek this particular 'widder' in marriage."

False oath.

"You see he seems to take it so much for granted, my giving The Cottage and that, I hardly like to refuse."

"It would not be of the least consequence, if it was not situated actually in our own woods, and not two miles from the house. There lies the chief objection," says Lady Chetwoode.

"Yes. Yet what can I do? It is a pretty little place, and it seems a pity to let it sink into decay. This tenant may save it."

"It is a lovely spot. I often fancy, Guy," says his mother, somewhat sadly, "I should like to go and live there myself when you get a wife."

"Why should you say that?" says Guy, almost roughly. "If my taking a wife necessitates your quitting Chetwoode, I shall never burden myself with that luxury."

"You don't follow out the Mater's argument, dear boy," says Cyril, smoothly. "She means that when your sylvan widow claims you as her own she must leave, as of course the same roof could not cover both. But you are eating nothing, mother; Guy's foolish letter has taken away your appetite. Take some of this broiled ham!"

"No, thank you, dear, I don't care for——"

"Don't perjure yourself. You know you have had a positive passion for broiled ham from your cradle up. I remember all about it. I insist on your eating your breakfast, or you will have that beastly headache back again."

"My dear," says his mother, entreatingly, "do you think you could be silent for a few minutes while I discuss this subject with your brother?"

"I shan't speak again. After that severe snubbing consider me dumb. But do get it over quick," says Cyril. "I can't be mute forever."

"I suppose I had better say yes," says Guy, doubtfully. "It looks rather like the dog in the manger, having The Cottage idle and still refusing Trant's friend."

"That reminds me of a capital story," breaks in the irrepressible Cyril, gayly. "By Jove, what a sell it was! One fellow met another fellow——"

"I shall refuse, of course, if you wish it," Guy goes on, addressing his mother, and scorning to notice this brilliant interruption.

"No, no, dear. Write and say you will think about it."

"Won't you listen to my capital story?" asks Cyril, in high disgust. "Very good. You will both be sorry afterward—when it is too late."

Even this awful threat takes no effect.

"Unfortunately, I can't do that," says Guy, answering Lady Chetwoode. "His friend is obliged to leave the place she is now in, immediately, and he wants her to come here next week—next"—glancing at the letter—"Saturday."

"Misfortunes never come single," remarks Cyril; "ours seem to crowd. First a ward, and then a widow, and all in the same week."

"Not only the same week, but the same day," exclaims Lady Chetwoode, looking at her letter; whereupon they all laugh, though they scarcely know why.

"What! Is she too coming on Saturday?" asks Guy. "How ill-timed! I am bound to go to the Bellairs, on that day, whether I like it or not, to dine, and sleep and spend my time generally. The old boy has some young dogs of which he is immensely proud, and has been tormenting me for a month past to go and see them. So yesterday he seized upon me again, and I didn't quite like to refuse, he seemed so bent on getting my opinion of the pups."

"Why not go early, and be back in time for dinner?"

"Can't, unfortunately. There is to be a dinner there in the evening for some cousin who is coming to pay them a visit; and I promised Harry, who doesn't shine in conversation, to stay and make myself agreeable to her. It's a bore rather, as I fear it will look slightly heathenish my not being at the station to meet Miss Chesney."

"Don't put yourself out about that: I'll do all I can to make up for your loss," says Cyril, who is eminently good-natured. "I'll meet her if you wish it, and bring her home."

"Thanks, old man: you're awfully good. It would look inhospitable neither of us being on the spot to bid her welcome. Take the carriage and——"

"Oh, by Jove, I didn't bargain for the carriage. To be smothered alive in July is not a fascinating idea. Don't you think, mother,"—in an insinuating voice—"Miss Chesney would prefer the dogcart or the——"

"My dear Cyril! Of course you must meet her in the carriage," says his mother, in the shocked tone that usually ends all disputes.

"So be it. I give in. Though when I arrive here in the last stage of exhaustion, reclining in Miss Chesney's arms, you will be to blame," says Cyril, amiably. "But to return to your widow, Guy; who is to receive her?"

"I dare say by this time she has learned to take care of herself," laughing. "At all events, she does not weigh upon my conscience, even should I consent to oblige Trant,"—looking at his mother—"by having her at The Cottage as a tenant."

"It looks very suspicious, her being turned out of her last place," Cyril says, in an uncomfortable tone. "Perhaps——" Here he pauses somewhat mysteriously.

"Perhaps what?" asks his mother, struck by his manner.

"Perhaps she is mad," suggests Cyril, in an awesome whisper. "An escaped lunatic!—a maniac!"

"I know no one who borders so much on lunacy as yourself," says Guy. "After all, what does it matter whether our tenant is fat, fair, and forty, or a lean old maid! It will oblige Trant, and it will keep the place together. Mother, tell me to say yes."

Thus desired, Lady Chetwoode gives the required permission.

"A new tenant at The Cottage and a young lady visitor—a permanent visitor! It only requires some one to leave us a legacy in the shape of a new-born babe, to make up the sum of our calamities," says Cyril, as he steps out of the low French window and drops on to the sward beneath.