a full average of
civility, without the least interest on her part. Do not for a moment
imagine that I am piqued at her insulting indifference of manner
towards a young man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly without
claim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady's eye. You
must not suppose I care at all about the matter. But as I have not
even a book allowed me to take up my thoughts, my curiosity fixes
itself strangely upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person,
who takes about as much notice of me as of the figure of Father Time
over the clock.

What can such a body have to think about the livelong day that is so
absorbing that all one's bright thoughts, and one's most whimsical
sallies, pass without notice? Should I see her once move a muscle of
her very plain, doggedly inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, I
should jump up and cry, "Bo!" with surprise.

She vanishes several hours at a time, and I hear her humming to
herself, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another. I wish I knew
how she amuses herself, for I find self-amusement the hardest drudgery
I ever tried. I could stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing but
lounge about; I am as snappish as a chained cur, as cross as a caged
bear. And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear that
contented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step on
the stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent. What can she find
to be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happy
in this dull house alone?

There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do not see her wince,
though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and sing
false on purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask her if she
can play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine in
self-defence.

There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily by
stage-coach. "Flory," says my aunt, "sings like a canary-bird, and
plays a sight,"--and _at sight_ too, it seems. This Miss Flora will be
found to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give it
exercise. I do not know certainly that Miss Etty--By the way, what is
her real name? I won't condescend to ask any question about her. But
really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. Perhaps Henrietta. No,
no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her _Little Ugly_.

Hark! I have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in the
direction of the kitchen. Hei