At the same moment Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, “I hope I am not to lose my companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat. Or perchance the renewed retribution of a flying fowl?” The playful request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia’s day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up her mind to something different, and was a little disappointed. But her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted and enabled her to receive Mr. Rushworth’s parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascending the box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

“Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for you, upon my word,” said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park. “Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go. A pretty good day’s amusement you have had!”

Maria was just discontented enough to say directly, “I think you have done pretty well yourself, ma’am. Your lap seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully—indeed, so much like the dear Egyptian clutter of home.”

“My dear, it is only a beautiful little heath, which that nice old gardener made me take. But if it is in your way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that parcel for me. Take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could, till the tears almost came into her eyes—” and she eventually concluded with—“Take care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well.”

“What else have you been spunging?” said Maria, half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

“Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants’ eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker quite forced upon me. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own house and borrow a coop—maybe from that wild contraption of dear Tom’s where all the hens sit these days—and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely hours. With luck, your mother shall have some eggs.”