Rupert. Thus the paper was handed round till it
was filled. It was then unrolled, and each player was required to
write a copy of verses in which these words were to be introduced as
rhymes in the order in which they stood in the list. Rupert was rather
put out by his sister's not allowing him to turn the poem in the way he
wished, and he thought proper to find fault with half the words in the
list.

'HARROGATE,' said he, 'what is to be done with such a word?'

'You can manage it very well if you choose,' said Elizabeth.

'But who could have thought of such a word?' said he, holding up the
list to the candle, and scrutinizing the writing. 'Some one with a
watery taste, doubtless.'

'You know those things are never divulged,' said Anne.

'FRANCES, too,' continued Rupert, 'there is another impossible case; I
will answer for it, Helen wrote that, a reminiscence of dear Dykelands.'

'No, indeed I did not,' said Helen; 'it is FRANCIS, too, I believe.'

'Oh yes,' said Harriet, 'it is FRANCIS, I wrote it, because--do not you
remember, Lucy?--Frank Hollis--'

'Well, never mind,' said Elizabeth, who wished to hear no more of that
gentleman; 'you may make it whichever you please. And Rupert, pray do
not be so idle; put down the list, no one can see it; write your own
verses, and tell me the next word to witch.'

'EYES,' said Rupert, 'and then BOUNCE. I do not believe that word is
English.'

'BOUNCE, no,' said Katherine; 'it is BONNET, I wrote it myself.'

'Then why do you make your 't' so short?' said Rupert; 'I must give you
a writing lesson, Miss Kitty.'

'I must give you a lesson in silence, Mr. Rupert,' said Elizabeth.

'I obey,' said Rupert, with a funny face of submission, and taking up
his paper and pencil; but in a minute or two he started up, exclaiming,
'What are they saying about Oxford?' and walked into the next room,
intending to take part in the conversation between his father and
uncle. Mr. Woodbourne, however, who was no great admirer of Rupert's
forwardness, did not shew so much deference to his nephew's opinion as
to make him very unwilling to return to the inner drawing-room, when
Anne came to tell him that all the poems were finished, and Elizabeth
ready to read them aloud.

'So this is all that you have to shew for yourself,' said Elizabeth,
holding up a scrap of paper; 'what is all this?'

'A portrait of Miss Merton,' said Rupert; 'do not you see the poet's
eye in a fine frenzy rolli