Shadows of what are shadows--living once
Now naught but ghosts among a world of ghosts.
Who knows--we may but shadows be on earth
And act the other life's realities.

Miss Cassy was greatly excited over the afternoon tea to which she had bidden Mrs. Larcher and the rest of the vicarage inmates. It was a long time since she had taken part in a little social festivity such as she had been accustomed to in London, so both herself and Una determined it should be a success. In the dreary dismal life they led this was a little mild excitement, consequently, it was to them as great an event as the ball of the season to a Town belle.

Reginald and Pumpkin walked over to the Grange, but Mrs. Larcher was driven over in state by Dick Pemberton, who drove at such a speed that he nearly rattled the vicar's wife into hysterics. Consequently on arriving at her destination, Mrs. Larcher was severely under the sway of "The Affliction" and had to be at once comforted with strong tea. Cecilia had also been invited, and arrived at the Grange under the guardianship of Miss Busky, who bounced the blind girl so rapidly along the road that she entered the Park in a state of exhaustion.

The party all assembled in Una's private room, where they were shortly afterwards joined by bluff Dr. Larcher and Beaumont. Jellicks, having wriggled in with the tea-cake and muffins, was dismissed altogether, as Mrs. Larcher, under the influence of "The Affliction," declared the old woman made her feel creepy.

"She's so twisty, my dear," she observed to Una, "like a sea-serpent you know--even the vicar has noticed her."

"Qui siccis oculis monstra natantia," roared the vicar, quoting from his favourite poet, "though to be sure, I speak of her in the singular."

"Of course," said Dick slily, "she's singular in any case:"

"So very odd," giggled Miss Cassy, who was making the tea, "I don't mean Jellicks, but what you say--puns you know--like what's his name, Byron, had in his burlesques--not the Don Juan one you know, but the other--so odd, wasn't he?"

"Not half so odd as Miss Cassy," whispered Dick to Reginald, but the latter young gentleman, being engaged with Una, did not reply.

"I don't know if I ought to eat muffins," said Mrs. Larcher darkly, as Miss Busky bounced up to her with a plate of those edibles. "So very buttery--make me bilious--I've been bilious often, have I not Eleanora Gwendoline?"

"Yes, often, Mama," assented the obedient Pumpkin.

"I hope you're better now?" observed Beaumont politely, seeing the lady's eyes fixed upon him.

"Ah, yes, now," sighed Mrs. Larcher, stirring her tea, "but will it last? the question is will it endure? my affliction is so capricious--I'm very weak--quite a Hindoo."

"Why a Hindoo, my dear?" asked the vicar, rather puzzled.

"Because they are weak--die if you look at them," explained Mrs. Larcher, "rice of course--they live on it and there's no nourishment in it."

"By the way, Miss Challoner, how is the Squire?" asked Beaumont, who was leaning up against the mantelpiece looking rather bored.

"He's not at all strong," replied Miss Cassy, taking the remark to herself, "quite like a candle you know--so odd--might go out at any moment--but Dr. Nestley is doing him good; but I don't think the dear doctor is well himself."

Beaumont smiled slightly at this, guessing the cause of the doctor's illness, and glancing at Cecilia, saw the blind girl was trembling violently.

"I hope he is not very ill," she said in her low, clear voice.

"Oh no--he'll be all right soon--I think it's overwork," said Una hastily, anxious to avoid any discussion of the doctor's complaint, the cause of which she, with her feminine shrewdness, half guessed. "Cecilia, will you play something?"

The blind girl assented, and was led by Una to the quaint old spinet which stood in the corner. With the true feelings of an artist Cecilia did not play anything noisy on the delicate instrument, but a dainty old gavotte which sounded faint and clear like the sound of a silver bell. All the company were charmed with the delicacy of the music except Miss Cassy and Mrs. Larcher who were conversing about dress.

"I hope you like mine," observed Miss Cassy, looking at the gown she wore, which was of white muslin dotted with pink bows. "I was afraid I'd make it dabby--I'm afraid I have made it dabby--do you think so?"

Mrs. Larcher eyed the production of Miss Cassy's artistic nature with a critical eye, and pronounced her opinion that it was dabby, thus reducing poor Miss Cassy to the verge of tears. When Cecilia finished the gavotte all present urged her to play something else.

"It's like fairy music," said Beaumont. "I love to hear those old airs of Purcell and Arne played upon such an instrument. It's so thoroughly in keeping with the idea. The lyrics in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' set to the old-fashioned music and played on a spinet, gives one a charming idea of the court of Oberon and Titania."

"And Miss Mosser plays so charmingly," said Reginald, gaily.

"'O testudinis aure?
Dulcem qu? strepitum Pieri temperas,'"

quoted the vicar, in his rolling bass.

"I prefer the sweet harmony of the spinet to the lyre," said Beaumont, smiling.

"Dear me, vicar," observed Mrs. Larcher angrily. "I wish you wouldn't be always talking Latin. No one understands it."

"That's hardly a compliment to the gentlemen present, my dear," said Dr. Larcher in his most stately manner, "but, as Horace says, 'Oh, mater pulchra'----I beg your pardon, I will refrain from the bard."

"Now, Mr. Blake, I want you to sing something," said Una, crossing over to Pumpkin.