“He may be coming home with his gold,” said Lionel.

They were interrupted.  First of all came in the tea-things—­for at Dr. West’s the dinner-hour was early—­and, next, two young ladies, bearing a great resemblance to each other.  It would give them dire offence not to call them young.  They were really not very much past thirty, but they were of that class of women who age rapidly; their hair was sadly thin, some of their teeth had gone, and they had thin, flushed faces and large twisted noses; but their blue eyes had a good-natured look in them.  Little in person, rather bending forward as they walked, and dressing youthfully, they yet looked older than they really were.  Their light brown hair was worn in short, straggling ringlets in front, and twisted up with a comb behind.  Once upon a time that hair was long and tolerably thick, but it had gradually and spitefully worn down to what it was now.  The Misses West were proud of it still, however; as may be inferred by the disappearance of the castor oil.  A short while back, somebody had recommended to them castor oil as the best specific for bringing on departed hair.  They were inoffensive in mind and manners, rather simple, somewhat affected and very vain, quarrelling with no person under the sun, except Sibylla.  Sibylla was the plague of their lives.  So many years younger than they, they had petted her and indulged her as a child, until at length the child became their mistress.  Sibylla was rude and ungrateful, would cast scornful words at them and call them “old maids,” with other reproachful terms.  There was open warfare between them; but in their hearts they loved Sibylla still.  They had been named respectively Deborah and Amilly.  The latter name had been intended for Amelie; but by some mistake of the parents or of the clergyman, none of them French scholars, Amilly, the child was christened and registered.  It remained a joke against Amilly to this day.

“Sibylla!” exclaimed Deborah, somewhat in surprise, as she shook hands with Lionel, “I thought you had gone to Verner’s Pride.”

“Nobody came for me.  It got dusk, and I did not care to go alone,” replied Sibylla.

“Did you think of going to Verner’s Pride this evening, Sibylla?” asked Lionel.  “Let me take you now.  We shall be just in time for dinner.  I’ll bring you back this evening.”

“I don’t know,” hesitated Sibylla.  The truth was, she had expected Frederick Massingbird to come for her.  “I—­think—­I’ll—­go,” she slowly said, apparently balancing some point in her mind.

“If you do go, you should make haste and put your things on,” suggested Miss Amilly.  And Sibylla acquiesced, and left the room.

“Has Mr. Jan been told that the tea’s ready, I wonder?” cried Miss Deborah.

Mr. Jan apparently had been told, for he entered as she was speaking:  and Master Cheese—­his apron off and his hair brushed—­with him.  Master Cheese cast an inquisitive look at the tea-table, hoping he should see something tempting upon it; eating good things forming the pleasantest portion of that young gentleman’s life.