gular brow, and other quaintnesses that reminded one of him.
Everything about them was compact, from the firm coils of their hair,
fastened back _a la Chinoise_, to their gray skirts in Puritan
nonconformity with the fashion, which at that time would have demanded
that four feminine circumferences should fill all the free space in the
front parlor. All four, if they had been wax-work, might have been
packed easily in a fashionable lady's traveling trunk. Their faces
seemed full of speech, as if their minds had been shelled, after the
manner of horse-chestnuts, and become brightly visible. The only large
thing of its kind in the room was Hafiz, the Persian cat, comfortably
poised on the brown leather back of a chair, and opening his large eyes
now and then to see that the lower animals were not in any mischief.

The book Mrs. Meyrick had before her was Erckmann-Chatrian's _Historie
d'un Conscrit_. She had just finished reading it aloud, and Mab, who
had let her work fall on the ground while she stretched her head
forward and fixed her eyes on the reader, exclaimed--

"I think that is the finest story in the world."

"Of course, Mab!" said Amy, "it is the last you have heard. Everything
that pleases you is the best in its turn."

"It is hardly to be called a story," said Kate. "It is a bit of history
brought near us with a strong telescope. We can see the soldiers'
faces: no, it is more than that--we can hear everything--we can almost
hear their hearts beat."

"I don't care what you call it," said Mab, flirting away her thimble.
"Call it a chapter in Revelations. It makes me want to do something
good, something grand. It makes me so sorry for everybody. It makes me
like Schiller--I want to take the world in my arms and kiss it. I must
kiss you instead, little mother?" She threw her arms round her mother's
neck.

"Whenever you are in that mood, Mab, down goes your work," said Amy.
"It would be doing something good to finish your cushion without
soiling it."

"Oh--oh--oh!" groaned Mab, as she stooped to pick up her work and
thimble. "I wish I had three wounded conscripts to take care of."

"You would spill their beef-tea while you were talking," said Amy.

"Poor Mab! don't be hard on her," said the mother. "Give me the
embroidery now, child. You go on with your enthusiasm, and I will go on
with the pink and white poppy."

"Well, ma, I think you are more caustic than Amy," said Kate, while she
drew her head back