“My maternal grandfather,” he said, “was a remarkable man.  In his youth he spent a great deal of time in France.  He was there at the time of the French Revolution, and, as it happened, was present at the execution of the unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette.  This of course was not intentional.  It chanced thus.  My grandfather was in a barber’s shop, having his hair cut.  He saw a great crowd going by, and went out to ask what was the cause.  The crowd was so immense that he could not extricate himself; he was carried along against his will, and not only so, but was forced to the front and compelled to witness every part of the dreadful scene.  He has often told my mother that, after the execution, the executioner held up the queen’s head to the people:  the eyes were open, and there was in them an expression, not of pain, not of fear, but of great astonishment and surprise.”

This anecdote carried “great astonishment and surprise” into the company who listened to it.  Mr. Page gave a sort of chuckle, and saying, “By George!” got up and left the room.  The girls put their heads out of the window that they might laugh unseen.  Daniel gazed at their shaking shoulders with an air of wonder, while the grave couple at the end of the room, who for some moments had been looking disturbed, drew near and informed the youthful prodigy that it was time for him to go to bed.

“Good-night, young ladies,” said the small condescending voice.  Katy alone had “presence of countenance” enough to return this salutation.  It was a relief to find that Daniel went to bed at all.

Next morning at breakfast they saw him seated between his parents, eating bread and milk.  He bowed to them over the edge of the bowl.

“Dreadful little prig!  They should bottle him in spirits of wine as a specimen.  It’s the only thing he’ll ever be fit for,” remarked Mr. Page, who rarely said so sharp a thing about anybody.

Louisa joined them at the station.  She was to travel under Mr. Page’s care, and Katy was much annoyed at Lilly’s manner with her.  It grew colder and less polite with every mile.  By the time they reached Ashburn it was absolutely rude.

“Come and see me very soon, girls,” said Louisa, as they parted in the station.  “I long to have you know mother and little Daisy.  Oh, there’s papa!” and she rushed up to a tall, pleasant-looking man, who kissed her fondly, shook hands with Mr. Page, and touched his hat to Lilly, who scarcely bowed in return.

“Boarding-school is so horrid,” she remarked, “you get all mixed up with people you don’t want to know,—­people not in society at all.”

“How can you talk such nonsense?” said her father:  “the Agnews are thoroughly respectable, and Mr. Agnew is one of the cleverest men I know.”

Katy was pleased when Mr. Page said this, but Lilly shrugged her shoulders and looked cross.

“Papa is so democratic,” she whispered to Clover, “he don’t care a bit who people are, so long as they are respectable and clever.”