d by
three footmen in the same splendid livery, now came up to Madame de
Bernstein's door. The Bishop, who had been about to enter, stopped, and
ran back with the most respectful bows and curtseys to the sedan-chair,
giving his hand to the lady who stepped thence.

"Who on earth is this?" asks Mrs. Lambert.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch? Ja, meinherr. Nichts verstand," says the waggish
Colonel.

"Pooh, Martin."

"Well, if you can't understand High Dutch, my love, how can I help it?
Your education was neglected at school. Can you understand heraldry?--I
know you can."

"I make." cries Charley, reciting the shield, "three merions on a field
or, with an earl's coronet."

"A countess's coronet, my son. The Countess of Yarmouth, my son."

"And pray who is she?"

"It hath ever been the custom of our sovereigns to advance persons
of distinction to honour," continues the Colonel, gravely, "and this
eminent lady hath been so promoted by our gracious monarch, to the rank
of Countess of this kingdom."

"But why, papa?" asked the daughters together.

"Never mind, girls!" said mamma.

But that incorrigible Colonel would go on.

"Y, my children, is one of the last and the most awkward letters of the
whole alphabet. When I tell you stories, you are always saying Why. Why
should my Lord Bishop be cringing to that lady? Look at him rubbing his
fat hands together, and smiling into her face! It's not a handsome face
any longer. It is all painted red and white like Scaramouch's in the
pantomime. See, there comes another blue-riband, as I live. My Lord
Bamborough. The descendant of the Hotspurs. The proudest man in England.
He stops, he bows, he smiles; he is hat in hand, too. See, she taps him
with her fan. Get away, you crowd of little blackguard boys, and don't
tread on the robe of the lady whom the King delights to honour."

"But why does the King honour her?" ask the girls once more.

"There goes that odious last letter but one! Did you ever hear of her
Grace the Duchess of Kendal? No. Of the Duchess of Portsmouth? Non plus.
Of the Duchess of La Valliore? Of Fair Rosamond, then?"

"Hush, papa! There is no need to bring blushes on the cheeks of my
dear ones, Martin Lambert!" said the mother, putting her finger to her
husband's lips.

"'Tis not I; it is their sacred Majesties who are the cause of the
shame," cries the son of the old republican. "Think of the bishops of
the Church and the proudest nobility of the world cring