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"They have got so terribly expensive," said Mrs. Mitford in a fretful tone. "After the soles we will have pheasant; you are fond of pheasant. And you shall pour out the coffee by-and-by. As the sweets—children always adore sweets—I hate them myself, but I suppose there will be something brought up for you. I ordered a savory for myself, but left your sweets to cook."

"And I'd ever so much rather eat a bit of your savory, mother; I don't so specially care for sweets," said Christian.

She was somewhat depressed, and yet she was happy. The delicately served meal was quite to her taste. She said to herself:

"This will be something to remember by-and-by when Rosy and I are eating red herrings and stale bread. I'll often talk to Rosy about this meal. I feel to-night as though I wasn't Christian Mitford at all, but someone else; not a poor martyr, but a sort of queen. How pretty mother looks! I shall never be pretty like her. Yes, she has a darling, sweet face, but——"

Christian did not follow up this "but," only it lay like a weight near her heart.