"Go a-head, up-stairs, wench, and let us find a place to put the box down. This is Miss Harriet's box."
"Orful heavy, ain't it, sir?"
"Well—it's not so light as it might be," asserts Master Sidney; "forward, there."
Meanwhile, too tired to repair to her room for any toilette arrangements at that hour of the night, Harriet Wesden sits down between her mother and father, holding her bonnet on her lap. Mr. and Mrs. Wesden regard her proudly, as well they may, Harriet being a girl to be proud of—tall, graceful, and pretty, something that makes home bright to the parents, and has been long missed by them. No one is aware of all that they have sacrificed in their desire to make a lady of their only child—or of one-half of the hopes which they have built upon concerning her.
"This always seems such an odd, little box to come back to after the great Brighton school," she says, wearily; "oh, dear! how tired I am!"
"Get your supper, my dear, at once, and don't sit up for anybody to-night," suggests the mother.
"I don't want any supper. I—I think I'll go up-stairs at once and keep all my little anecdotes of school and schooling till the morrow. Shall I?"
"By all means, Harriet, if you're tired," says the father, "but after a long journey I would take something. You don't feel poorly, my dear?"
"Who?—I—oh! no," she answered, startled at the suggestion; "but I have been eating biscuits and other messes all the journey up to London, and therefore my appetite is spoiled for the night. To-morrow I shall be myself again—and we will have a long talk about all that has happened since I left here last year—by to-morrow, we shall have settled down so comfortably!"
"I hope so."