"As far as regards myself, madam," George said, laying down the paper,
"my mother's letter conveys no news to me. I always knew that Harry was
the favourite son with Madam Esmond, as he deserves indeed to be. He has
a hundred good qualities which I have not the good fortune to possess.
He has better looks----"

"Nay, that is not your fault," said the old lady, slily looking at him;
"and, but that he is fair and you are brown, one might almost pass for
the other."

Mr. George bowed, and a faint blush tinged his pale cheek.

"His disposition is bright, and mine is dark," he continued; "Harry
is cheerful, and I am otherwise, perhaps. He knows how to make himself
beloved by every one, and it has been my lot to find but few friends."

"My sister and you have pretty little quarrels. There were such in old
days in our family," the Baroness said; "and if Madam Esmond takes after
our mother----"

"My mother has always described hers as an angel upon earth," interposed
George.

"Eh! That is a common character for people when they are dead!" cried
the Baroness; "and Rachel Castlewood was an angel, if you like--at least
your grandfather thought so. But let me tell you, sir, that angels are
sometimes not very commodes a vivre. It may be they are too good to live
with us sinners, and the air down below here don't agree with them. My
poor mother was so perfect that she never could forgive me for being
otherwise. Ah, mon Dieu! how she used to oppress me with those angelical
airs!"

George cast down his eyes, and thought of his own melancholy youth.
He did not care to submit more of his family secrets to the cynical
inquisition of this old worldling, who seemed, however, to understand
him in spite of his reticence.

"I quite comprehend you, sir, though you hold your tongue," the Baroness
continued. "A sermon in the morning: a sermon at night: and two or three
of a Sunday. That is what people call being good. Every pleasure cried
fie upon; all us worldly people excommunicated; a ball an abomination of
desolation; a play a forbidden pastime; and a game of cards perdition!
What a life! Mon Dieu, what a life!"

"We played at cards every night, if we were so inclined," said George,
smiling; "and my grandfather loved Shakspeare so much, that my mother
had not a word to say against her father's favourite author."

"I remember. He could say whole pages by heart; though, for my part,
I like Mr. Congreve a great deal better. And then