constantly throbbing at the window of expectancy on the lookout for the
champion. They are always hearing his horn. They are for ever on the
tower looking out for the hero. Sister Ann, Sister Ann, do you see him?
Surely 'tis a knight with curling mustachios, a flashing scimitar, and a
suit of silver armour. Oh no! it is only a costermonger with his donkey
and a pannier of cabbage! Sister Ann, Sister Ann, what is that cloud of
dust? Oh, it is only a farmer's man driving a flock of pigs from market.
Sister Ann, Sister Ann, who is that splendid warrior advancing in
scarlet and gold? He nears the castle, he clears the drawbridge, he
lifts the ponderous hammer at the gate. Ah me, he knocks twice! 'Tis
only the postman with a double letter from Northamptonshire! So it is we
make false starts in life. I don't believe there is any such thing known
as first love--not within man's or woman's memory. No male or female
remembers his or her first inclination any more than his or her own
christening. What? You fancy that your sweet mistress, your spotless
spinster, your blank maiden just out of the schoolroom, never cared
for any but you? And she tells you so? Oh, you idiot! When she was four
years old she had a tender feeling towards the Buttons who brought the
coals up to the nursery, or the little sweep at the crossing, or the
music-master, or never mind whom. She had a secret longing towards
her brother's schoolfellow, or the third charity boy at church, and
if occasion had served, the comedy enacted with you had been performed
along with another. I do not mean to say that she confessed this amatory
sentiment, but that she had it. Lay down this page, and think how
many and many and many a time you were in love before you selected the
present Mrs. Jones as the partner of your name and affections!

So, from the way in which Theo held her head down, and exchanged looks
with her mother, when poor unconscious Harry called the Persians the
Prussians, and talked of serving a campaign with them, I make no doubt
she was feeling ashamed, and thinking within herself, "Is this the hero
with whom my mamma and I have been in love for these twenty-four hours,
and whom we have endowed with every perfection? How beautiful, pale, and
graceful he looked yesterday as he lay on the ground! How his curls fell
over his face! How sad it was to see his poor white arm, and the blood
trickling from it when papa bled him! And now he is well and amongst us,
h