r dinner."
This was in reply to a hint of sister Dora. "But I'd give him some of
it," continues Miles, after a pause.

"Shut thy mouth with it, child, and then go about thy business," says
papa, amused. Sir Miles Warrington had a considerable fund of easy
humour.

"Who would have thought he should ever be so wild?" mamma goes on.

"Nay. Youth is the season for wild oats, my dear."

"That we should be so misled in him!" sighed the girls.

"That he should kiss us both!" cries papa.

"Sir Miles Warrington, I have no patience with that sort of vulgarity!"
says the majestic matron.

"Which of you was the favourite yesterday, girls?" continues the father.

"Favourite, indeed! I told him over and over again of my engagement
to dear Tom--I did, Dora--why do you sneer, if you please?" says the
handsome sister.

"Nay, to do her justice, so did Dora too," said papa.

"Because Flora seemed to wish to forget her engagement with dear Tom
sometimes," remarks the sister.

"I never, never, never wished to break with Tom! It's wicked of you to
say so, Dora! It is you who were for ever sneering at him: it is you who
are always envious because I happen--at least, because gentlemen imagine
that I am not ill-looking, and prefer me to some folks, in spite of
all their learning and wit!" cries Flora, tossing her head over her
shoulder, and looking at the glass.

"Why are you always looking there, sister?" says the artless Miles
junior. "Sure, you must know your face well enough!"

"Some people look at it just as often, child, who haven't near such good
reason," says papa, gallantly.

"If you mean me, Sir Miles, I thank you," cries Dora. "My face is as
Heaven made it, and my father and mother gave it me. 'Tis not my fault
if I resemble my papa's family. If my head is homely, at least I have
got some brains in it. I envious of Flora, indeed, because she has found
favour in the sight of poor Tom Claypool! I should as soon be proud of
captivating a ploughboy!"

"Pray, miss, was your Mr. Harry, of Virginia, much wiser than Tom
Claypool? You would have had him for the asking!" exclaims Flora.

"And so would you, miss, and have dropped Tom Claypool into the sea!"
cries Dora.

"I wouldn't."

"You would."

"I wouldn't;"--and da capo goes the conversation--the shuttlecock of
wrath being briskly battled from one sister to another.

"Oh, my children! Is this the way you dwell together in unity?" exclaims
their excellent female p