weighed upon his spirits, by his fierce, short,
maniacal temper. But with the seal of that letter the spell broke, the
evil spirit departed for a while, and the old jocose, laconic irony came
back, and glittered whitely in the tall chair by the fire, and sipped
its claret after dinner, and sometimes smoked its long pipe and grinned
into the embers of the grate. At Belmont, there had been a skirmish over
the broiled drum-sticks at supper, and the ladies had withdrawn in
towering passions to their nightly devotions and repose.

Gertrude had of late grown more like herself, but was quite resolute
against the Dangerfield alliance, which Aunt Becky fought for, the more
desperately that in their private confidences under the poplar trees she
had given the rich cynic of the silver spectacles good assurance of
success.

Puddock drank tea at Belmont--nectar in Olympus--that evening. Was ever
lieutenant so devoutly romantic? He had grown more fanatical and abject
in his worship. He spoke less, and lisped in very low tones. He sighed
often, and sometimes mightily; and ogled unhappily, and smiled
lackadaisically. The beautiful damsel was, in her high, cold way, kind
to the guest, and employed him about the room on little commissions, and
listened to his speeches without hearing them, and rewarded them now and
then with the gleam of a smile, which made his gallant little heart
flutter up to his solitaire, and his honest powdered head giddy.

'I marvel, brother,' ejaculated Aunt Becky, suddenly, appearing in the
parlour, where the general had made himself comfortable over his novel,
and opening her address with a smart stamp on the floor. The veteran's
heart made a little jump, and he looked up over his gold spectacles.

'I marvel, brother, what you can mean, desire, or intend, by all this
ogling, sighing, and love-making; 'tis surely a strange way of
forwarding Mr. Dangerfield's affair.'

He might have blustered a little, as he sometimes did, for she had
startled him, and her manner was irritating; but she had caught him in a
sentimental passage between Lovelace and Miss Harlowe, which always
moved him--and he showed no fight at all; but his innocent little light
blue eyes looked up wonderingly and quite gently at her.

'Who--I? _What_ ogling, Sister Becky?'

'You! tut! That foolish, ungrateful person, Lieutenant Puddock; what can
you propose to yourself, brother, in bringing Lieutenant Puddock here? I
hate him.'

'Why, wha