her hand for future use, should this persecution be continued. “I hope I sha{104}n’t get ill when Dr Mitford is so kind,” she said, as she was helped into the shabby little carriage. It was the only one they had at Fanshawe, and they thought a great deal of it. It was high, and the wheels were large, and the hood toppled about so, it looked as if it must tumble down on their noses every minute—and Kate had carriages of her own, and knew what was what in this respect; and she did not care in the least about the Roman camp, and the roads were very dusty, and would spoil her clean pretty dress. Nevertheless she had to yield like a martyr, and indeed felt herself very like one as she drove away by Dr Mitford’s side, leaving John standing looking very blank on the lawn. “Why could not he come too?” Kate said to herself; and called him fainéant and sluggard in her heart. But, after all, there was no room for John. He watched, feeling much more blank even than she did, as the carriage rattled away, and by-and-by was joined by his mother, who, for her part, was rather pleased to get rid of her visitor for half a day at least. Mrs Mitford laid her hand on her so{105}n’s shoulder as she came to him, but John took no notice, and only gazed the more at the carriage rattling and grinding and wheezing away.
{104}
{105}
“My dear boy!” she said, looking at him with tender admiring eyes, and smoothing his sleeve with her soft hand as if she loved it, “don’t look after them like that. You have seen the camp at Dulchester before now.”
“Oh yes—fifty times at least,” said John, turning away with a derisive grin. “You don’t think I care for that?”
“Then why should you look so blank?” said his mother. “Miss Crediton is very nice, but, do you know, I am afraid it will be very hard work entertaining her. I am sure I don’t know what to do. If the Huntleys come to-morrow, that will be enough (I hope) for one day. And then we might have a dinner-party; but I can’t think she would care for a dinner-party. I am sure I should not at her age. Your papa thinks that is the proper thing; but fancy one of our ordinary parties, with the Fanshawes and the Lancasters and the doctor, and some curate to fill up—what wou{106}ld that be to her?”
{106}
“Mamma,” said John, “I am sure you are taking a great deal too much trouble. Why not leave Miss Crediton alone? She has gone to-day only to please my father. She does not care for Roman camps any more than I do, nor for a drive in a
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