"Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't, As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought, In troth I'm like to greet."--W. J. MICKLE.

It is the most important day of all the three hundred and sixty-five, at least to Lilian, because it will bring her Taffy. Just before dinner he will arrive, not sooner, and it is now only half-past four.

All at Chetwoode are met in the library. The perfume of tea is on the air; the click of Lady Chetwoode's needles keeps time to the conversation that is buzzing all round.

Miss Beauchamp, serene and immovable as ever, is presiding over the silver and china, while Lilian, wild with spirits, and half mad with excitement and expectation, is chattering with Cyril upon a distant sofa.

Sir Guy, upon the hearthrug, is expressing his contempt for the views entertained by a certain periodical on the subject of a famous military scandal, in real parliamentary language, and Florence is meekly agreeing with him straight through. Never was any one (seemingly) so thoroughly _en rapport_ with another as Florence with Sir Guy. Her amiable and rather palpable determination to second his ideas on all matters, her "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when in his company, would, if recited, fill a volume in themselves. But I don't deny it would be a very stupid volume, from the same to the same: so I suppress it.

"Sir Guy," says Lilian, suddenly, "don't look so stern and don't stand with one hand in your breast, and one foot advanced, as though you were going to address the House."

"Well, but he is going to address the House," says Cyril, reprovingly: "we are all here, aren't we?"

"It is perfectly preposterous," says Guy, who is heated with his argument, and scarcely hears what is going on around him, so great is his righteous indignation. "If being of high birth is a reason why one must be dragged into notoriety, one would almost wish one was born a----"

"Sir Guy," interrupts Lilian again, throwing at him a paper pellet she has been preparing for the last two minutes, with sure and certain aim, "didn't you hear me desire you not to look like that?"

Sir Guy laughs, and subsides into a chair. Miss Beauchamp shrugs her shapely shoulders and indulges in a smile suggestive of pity.

"I begin to feel outrageously jealous of this unknown Taffy," says Cyril. "I never knew you in such good spirits before. Do you always laugh when you are happy?"

"'Much laughter covers many tears,'" returns Lilian, gayly. "Yes, I am very happy,--so happy that I think a little would make me cry."

"Oh, don't," says Cyril, entreatingly; "if you begin I'm safe to follow suit, and weeping violently always makes me ill."

"I can readily believe it," says Miss Chesney. "Your expression is unmistakably doleful, O knight of the rueful countenance!"

"And his manner is so dejected," remarks his mother, smiling. "Have you not noticed how silent he always is? One might easily imagine him the victim of an unhappy love tale."

"If you say much more," says Mr. Chetwoode, "like Keats, I shall 'die of a review.' I feel much offended. It has been the dream of my life up to this that society in general regarded me as a gay and brilliant personage, one fitted to shine in any sphere, concentrating (as I hoped I did) rank, beauty, and fashion in my own body."

"_Did_ you hope all that?" asks Lilian, with soft impertinence.

"'A modest hope, but modesty's my forte,'" returns he, mildly. "No, Miss Chesney, I won't be told I am conceited. This is a case in which we 'all do it;' every one in this life thinks himself better than he is."

"I am glad you so scrupulously exonerate the women," says Lilian, maliciously.

At this moment a step is heard in the hall outside. Lilian starts, and rises impulsively to her feet; her face lights; a delicate pink flush dawns upon it slowly, and then deepens into a rich carnation.

Instinctively her eyes turn to Lady Chetwoode, and the breath comes a little quicker from her parted lips.

"But," she murmurs, raising one hand, and speaking in the low tone one adopts when intently listening,--"but that I know he can't be here for another hour, I should say that was--Taffy!"

The door has opened. A tall, very young man, with a bright boyish face, fair brown hair, and a daring attempt at a moustache, stands upon the threshold. Lilian, with a little soft glad cry, runs to him and throws herself into his arms.

"Oh, dear, dear boy, you have come!" she says, whereupon the tall young man laughs delightedly, and bestows upon her an honest and most palpable hug.

"Hug," quotha! and what is a "hug"? asks the fastidious reader: and yet, dear ignorance, I think there is no word in all the English language, or in any other language, that so efficiently describes the enthusiasm of a warm embrace as the small one of three letters.

Be it vulgar or not, however, I cannot help it: the fact remains. Taffy openly and boldly hugged Miss Chesney before her guardian's eyes, and Miss Chesney does not resent it; on the contrary, she kisses him with considerable _empress.e.m.e.nt_, and then turns to Lady Chetwoode, who is an admiring spectator of the scene. Cyril is visibly amused; Sir Guy a trifle envious; Miss Beauchamp thinks the new-comer far too grown for the reception of such a public demonstration of affection on the part of a well-conducted young woman, but is rather glad than otherwise that Lilian has so far committed herself before her guardian.

"It is Taffy," says Lilian, with much pride. "I knew it was. Do you know," turning her sweet, flushed, excited face to her cousin, "the moment I heard your step outside, I said, 'That is Taffy,' and it _was_," with a charming laugh.

Meanwhile Mr. Musgrave is being kindly received by Lady Chetwoode and her sons.

"It was so awfully good of you to ask me here!" he is saying, gratefully, and with all a boy's delightful frankness of tone and manner. "If you hadn't, I shouldn't have known what to do, because I hate going to my guardian's, one puts in such a bad time there, the old man is so grumpy. When I got your invitation I said to myself, 'Well, I _am_ in luck!'"

Here he is introduced to Miss Beauchamp, and presses the hand she extends to him with much friendliness, being in radiant spirits with himself and the world generally.

"Why, Taffy, you aren't a bit altered, though I do think you have grown half an inch or so," says Lilian, critically, "and I am so glad of it.

When I heard you had really joined and become an undeniable 'heavy,' I began to fear you would change, and grow grand, and perhaps think yourself a man, and put on a great deal of 'side;' isn't that the word, Sir Guy?" saucily, peeping at him from behind Taffy's back. "You mustn't correct me, because I heard you use that word this morning; and I am sure you would not give way to a naughty expression."

"We are all very glad to have you, Mr. Musgrave," says Lady Chetwoode, graciously, who has taken an instantaneous fancy to him. "I hope your visit will be a happy one."

"Thank you, I know it will; but my name is Taffy," says young Musgrave.

"I hope you will call me by it. I hardly know myself by any other name now." He says this with a laugh so exactly like Lilian's that they all notice it, and comment upon it afterward. Indeed, both in feature and manner he strongly resembles his cousin. Lady Chetwoode smiles, and promises to forget the more formal address for the future.

"I have so many things to show you," exclaims Lilian, fondly. "The stables here are even better than at the Park, and I have a brown mare all my own, and I am sure I could beat you at tennis now, and there are six lovely new fat little puppies; will you come and see them? but perhaps"--doubtfully--"of course you are tired."

"He must be tired, I think, and hungry too," says Guy, coming up to him and laying his hand upon his shoulder, "If you can spare him for a moment or two, Lilian, I will show Taffy his room." Here Guy smiles at his new guest, and when Guy smiles he is charming. Mr. Musgrave likes him on the spot.

"I will go with you," says Lilian promptly, who is never troubled with the pangs of etiquette, and who cannot as yet bear to lose sight of her boy. "Such a pretty room as it is! It is near mine, and has an exquisite view from it,--the lake, and the swans, and part of the garden. Oh, Taffy, I am so _glad_ you are come!"

They are half-way up the stairs by this time, and Lilian, putting her hand through her cousin's arm, beams upon him so sweetly that Guy, who is the looker-on, feels he would give a small fortune for permission to kiss her without further delay. Taffy does kiss her on the instant without having to waste any fortune or ask any permission; and Chetwoode, seeing how graciously the caress is received and returned, feels a strange trouble at his heart. How fond she is of this boy!

Surely he is more to her than any cousin ever yet was to another.

At the head of the stairs another interruption occurs. Advancing toward them, arrayed in her roomiest, most amazing cap, and clad in her Sunday gown, appears Mrs. Tipping, shining with joy and expectation. Seeing Taffy, she opens wide her capacious arms, into which Mr. Musgrave precipitates himself and is for the moment lost.

When he comes to light again, he embraces her warmly, and placing his hands upon her shoulders, regards her smilingly.

"Bless the boy, how he has grown, to be sure!" says nurse, with tears in her eyes; taking out her spectacles with much deliberation, she carefully adjusts them on her substantial nose, and again subjects him to a loving examination.

"Yes; hasn't he, nurse? I said so," remarks Lilian, in raptures, while Sir Guy stands behind, much edified.

"So have you, nurse," says Master Taffy,--"_young_. I protest it is a shame the way you go on deceiving the public. Every year only sees you fresher and lovelier. Why, you are ten years younger than when last I saw you. It's uncommonly mean of you not to give us a hint as to how you manage it."

"Tut," says nurse, giving him a scornful poke with her first finger, though she is tremendously flattered; "be off with you; you are worse than ever. Eh, but I always knew how it would be if you took to soldiering. All the millingtary has soft tongues, and the gift o' the gab."

"How do you know, nurse?" demands Mr. Musgrave: "I always understood the fortunate Tipping was a retired mason. I am afraid at some period of your life you must have lost your heart to a bold dragoon. Never mind: my soldiering shan't bring me to grief, if only for your sake."

"Eh, darling, I hope not," says nurse, surveying with fond admiration his handsome boyish face: "such bonnie looks as yours should aye sit upon a high head."

"I decline to listen to any more flattery. It is downright demoralizing," says Mr. Musgrave, virtuously, and presently finds himself in his pretty room, that is sweet with the blossoms of Lilian's gathering.