“What is it?” cry Barbara and Tou Tou in a breath.

“It is a—­a traveling-bag,” reply I, with a little hesitation, looking imploringly from Barbara to Bobby.  “Do you think he will like it?” “A traveling-bag!” echoes Bobby; then, a little bluntly, “but he never travels!”

“No more he does!” reply I, feeling a good deal crestfallen.  “I thought of that myself; it was not quite my own idea—­it was the general’s suggestion!”

“The general!” says Bobby, “whew—­w!” (with a long whistle of intelligence)—­“well, he ought to know what he likes and dislikes, ought not he?  He ought to understand his tastes, being the same age, and having been at schoo—­”

“Look!” cry I, hastily, breaking into the midst of these soothing facts, which are daily becoming more distasteful to me, and pointing to the windows of the house, which are all blazing in the sunset, each pane sending forth a sheaf of fire, as if some great and mighty feast were being held within.  “I see you are having an illumination in honor of us.”

“Yes,” answers Bobby, kindly entering into my humor, “and the reason why father did not come to meet you at the gate was that he was busy lighting the candles.”

My spirits are so dashed by the more implied than expressed disapproval of my brethren, that I resolve to defer the presentation of the bag till to-morrow, or perhaps—­to-morrow being Sunday, always rather a dark day in the paternal calendar—­till Monday.

Dinner is over, and, as it is clearly impossible to stay in-doors on such a night, we are all out again.  The three elders—­father, mother, and husband—­sitting sedately on three rustic chairs on the dry gravel-walk, and we young ones lying about in different attitudes of restful ease, on rugs and cloaks that we have spread upon the dewy grass.  We are not far off from the others, but just so far as that our talk should be out of ear-shot.  In my own mind, I am not aware that Sir Roger would far rather be with us, listening to our quick gabble, and laughing with us at our threadbare jests, which are rewarded with mirth so disproportioned to their size, than interchanging sober talk with the friend of his infancy.  Once or twice I see his gray eyes straying a little wistfully toward us, but he makes no slightest movement toward joining us.  I should like, if I had my own way, to ask him to come to us, to ask him to sit on the rugs and make jokes too, but some sort of false shame, some sneaky shyness before the boys, hinders me.  I am leaning my elbow on the soft fur of the rug, and my head on my hand, and am staring up at the stars, cool and throbbing, so like little stiletto-holes pricked in heaven’s floor, as they steal out in systems and constellations on the night.

“There is dear old Charles Wain,” say I, affectionately; “I never knew where to look for him in Dresden; how nice it is to be at home again!”

“Nancy!” says Algy, gravely, “do you know I have counted, and that is the sixteenth time that you have made that ejaculation since your arrival!  Do you know—­I am sorry to have to say it—­that it sounds as if you had not enjoyed your honey-moon very much?”