"Oh no, Uncle James," was Mary Ursula's answer. "I never go to bed until I have sung the evening hymn to papa."
"Where's Miss Mountsorrel?"
"The carriage came for her at ten o'clock."
"And pray where's Master William, that he has not been here this evening?"
She blushed like a summer rose. "Do you think he is here every evening, Uncle James? Mrs. Webb warned him in time that it would not be etiquette, especially while she was away. And how have you enjoyed yourself?"
"Passably. The baked meats you spoke of were tempting; the nectar good. Of which nectar, in the shape of a dinner port, the parson took slightly more than was necessary. What toast, do you suppose, he suddenly gave us?"
"How can I tell, Uncle James?" she rejoined, looking up.
"We were talking of you at the moment, and the parson rose to his legs, his glass in his hand. 'Here's to the fairest and sweetest maiden in the universe,' said he, 'and may she soon be Lady Blake-Gordon!'"
"Oh, how could he!" exclaimed Miss Castlemaine, colouring painfully in her distress. "And Sir Richard present!"
"As to Sir Richard, I thought he was going frantic. You know what he is. 'Zounds! Sir Parson,' he cried, starting up in his turn, 'do you wish me dead? Is it not enough that the young lady should first become Mistress Blake-Gordon? Am I so old and useless as to be wished out of the world for the sake of my son's aggrandisement?'--and so on. Marston pacified him at last, protesting that he had only said Mistress Blake-Gordon; or that, if he had not, he had meant to say it. And now, goodnight, my dear, for I don't care to keep my horses standing longer in the cold. When are you coming to stay at Greylands' Rest?"