"No, Grace has this moment left me."
"Well, Emily," said John, taking his seat very composedly, but keeping his eyes on the door, "I have come to dine with you. I thought I owed Clara a visit, and have managed nicely to give the colonel the go-by."
"Clara will be happy to see you, dear John and so will aunt, and so am I"—as she drew aside his fine hair with her fingers to cool his forehead.
"And why not Grace, too?" asked John, with a look of a little alarm.
"And Grace, too, I fancy—but here she is, to answer for herself."
Grace said little on her entrance, but her eyes were brighter than usual, and she looked so contented and happy that Emily observed to her, in an affectionate manner—
"I knew the eau-de-Cologne would do your head good."
"Is Miss Chatterton unwell?" asked John, with a look of interest.
"A slight headache," said Grace, faintly, "but I feel much better."
"Want of air and exercise: my horses are at the door; the phaeton will hold three easily; run, sister, for your hat," almost pushing Emily out of the room as he spoke. In a few minutes the horses might have been suffering for air, but surely not for exercise.
"I wish," cried John, with impatience, when at the distance of a couple of miles from the parsonage, "that gentleman had driven his gig out of the road."
There was a small group on one side of the road, consisting of a man, a woman, and several children. The owner of the gig had alighted, and was in the act of speaking to them, as the phaeton approached at a great rate.
"John," cried Emily, in terror, "You never can pass—you will upset us."
"There is no danger, dear Grace," said the brother, endeavoring to check his horses; he succeeded in part, but not so as to prevent his passing at a spot where the road was very narrow; a wheel hit violently against a stone
