The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at

the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to

be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the

youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize,

and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the

first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa

made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more

room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage.

"And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. I am

come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this

evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard!

And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse

her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of

spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here

afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother,

Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or

something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most

unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that

Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's

captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while

before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and

things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be

the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard!

So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon

such gloomy things."

The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were,

that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome,

hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his

twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and

unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any

time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard

of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death

abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before.

He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for

him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a

thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done

anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name,

living or dead.




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