Margaret Maliphant

								

I shouldn't ask her to perform unless you're obliged to."
We said we were not obliged to; but Joyce said she wouldn't like to do
anything unkind, and she was afraid Mary Thorne wanted to be asked to
perform. And then they two retired into the window again, discussing
the concert and the view, and I soon saw proudly that they were talking
as though they had known one another for years. It generally took
a long while for any one to get through the first ice with Joyce,
but this man had an easy way with him; he was so sympathetic in his
personality--so kind and frank and natural.
"That's a most ridiculous article in the Herald," said the squire to
father. "I wonder Blair can put in such stuff. He's a sensible man."
"I wonder you'll admit even that, squire," answered father, with a
little laugh. The paper, I need not say, was the Liberal organ.
"Oh, well," smiled the other, "I can see the good in a man though I
don't agree with him. But I think that"--pointing to the print--"is
beneath contempt."
"I don't hold with it myself," answered father; "the man has got no
pluck."
"Oh no, of course--doesn't go far enough for you, Maliphant," laughed
the squire; and at that moment mother came in or I do not know what
father would have answered. She came in slowly, and stood a moment in
the door-way looking round upon us all. Joyce blushed scarlet, and came
forward out of the recess. The squire rose and hastened towards her.
"We have been invading your house while you have been away, Mrs.
Maliphant," said he. "That wasn't polite, was it? But you'll forgive
me, I know."
Mother's eyes scarcely rested on him; they travelled past him to
Captain Forrester, who stood in the window.
"My nephew, Frank Forrester," said the squire, hastily following her
look. The captain advanced and bowed to mother. He could do nothing
more, for she did not hold out her hand.
"I am very glad to see any friend of yours, squire," said she. And then
she turned away from him, and unfastened her cloak, which I took from
her and hung up in the hall.
"Joyce, lay the cloth," said she. "We'll have tea at once." I left the
room with sister.
"Never mind," whispered I, outside, as we fetched the pretty white
egg-shell cups that always came out when we had any company; "mother
doesn't mean to be queer. She is just a little cold now, because she
wants Captain Forrester to understand it wasn't with her leave we let
him drive us home. But she isn't really cross."
"Cross! Oh, Margaret, no--of course not," echoed Joyce. She was taking
down a plate from under a pile of cups, and said no more at the moment.
I was ashamed and half vexed. That was the worst of Joyce. Sometimes
she would reprove one when one was actually fighting her battles.
"Of course we ought not to have done it," continued she, setting the
cups in order on the tray. "I felt it at the time."
"Then, why in the world didn't you say so?" cried I.