other individual with whom, as we have seen, the youth had
lately been smitten. Miss Theo had kind eyes and a sweet voice; a ruddy
freckled cheek and a round white neck, on which, out of a little cap
such as misses wore in those times, fell rich curling clusters of dark
brown hair. She was not a delicate or sentimental-looking person. Her
arms, which were worn bare from the elbow like other ladies' arms in
those days, were very jolly and red. Her feet were not so miraculously
small but that you could see them without a telescope. There was nothing
waspish about her waist. This young person was sixteen years of age, and
looked older. I don't know what call she had to blush so when she made
her curtsey to the stranger. It was such a deep ceremonial curtsey as
you never see at present. She and her sister both made these "cheeses"
in compliment to the new comer, and with much stately agility.

As Miss Theo rose up out of this salute, her papa tapped her under the
chin (which was of the double sort of chins), and laughingly hummed out
the line which he had read the day. "Eh bien! que dites-vous, ma fille,
de notre hote?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Lambert!" cries mamma.

"Nonsense is sometimes the best kind of sense in the world," said
Colonel Lambert. His guest looked puzzled.

"Are you fond of nonsense?" the Colonel continued to Harry, seeing by
the boy's face that the latter had no great love or comprehension of his
favourite humour. "We consume a vast deal of it in this house.
Rabelais is my favourite reading. My wife is all for Mr. Fielding and
Theophrastus. I think Theo prefers Tom Brown, and Mrs. Hetty here loves
Dean Swift."

"Our papa is talking what he loves," says Miss Hetty.

"And what is that, miss?" asks the father of his second daughter.

"Sure, sir, you said yourself it was nonsense," answers the young lady,
with a saucy toss of her head.

"Which of them do you like best, Mr. Warrington?" asked the honest
Colonel.

"Which of whom, sir?"

"The Curate of Meudon, or the Dean of St. Patrick's, or honest Tom, or
Mr. Fielding?"

"And what were they, sir?"

"They! Why, they wrote books."

"Indeed, sir. I never heard of either one of 'em," said Harry, hanging
down his head. "I fear my book-learning was neglected at home, sir. My
brother had read every book that ever was wrote, I think. He could have
talked to you about 'em for hours together."

With this little speech Mrs. Lambert's eyes turned to her daughte