settled matter that this was amongst the other victories
of the Fortunate Youth.

Sir Miles told his wife and Harry as much, when the young man appeared
at the appointed hour at the Baronet's dinner-table, and he rallied
Harry in his simple rustic fashion. The lady, at first a grand and
stately personage, told Harry, on their further acquaintance, that the
reputation which the world had made for him was so bad, that at first
she had given him but a frigid welcome. With the young ladies, Sir
Miles's daughters, it was "How d'ye do, cousin?" and "No, thank you,
cousin," and a number of prim curtseys to the Virginian, as they greeted
him and took leave of him. The little boy, the heir of the house, dined
at table, under the care of his governor; and, having his glass of port
by papa after dinner, gave a loose to his innocent tongue, and asked
many questions of his cousin. At last the innocent youth said, after
looking hard in Harry's face, "Are you wicked, cousin Harry? You don't
look very wicked!"

"My dear Master Miles!" expostulates the tutor, turning very red.

"But you know you said he was wicked!" cried the child.

"We are all miserable sinners, Miley," explains papa. "Haven't you heard
the clergyman say so every Sunday?"

"Yes, but not so very wicked as cousin Harry. Is it true that you
gamble, cousin, and drink all night with wicked men, and frequent the
company of wicked women? You know you said so, Mr. Walker--and mamma
said so, too, that Lady Yarmouth was a wicked woman."

"And you are a little pitcher," cries papa: "and my wife, nephew Harry,
is a staunch Jacobite--you won't like her the worse for that. Take Miles
to his sisters, Mr. Walker, and Topsham shall give thee a ride in the
park, child, on thy little horse." The idea of the little horse consoled
Master Miles; for, when his father ordered him away to his sisters, he
had begun to cry bitterly, bawling out that he would far rather stay
with his wicked cousin.

"They have made you a sad reputation among 'em, nephew!" says the jolly
Baronet. "My wife, you must know, of late years, and since the death of
my poor eldest son, has taken to,--to, hum!--to Tottenham Court Road and
Mr. Whitfield's preaching: and we have had one Ward about the house, a
friend of Mr. Walker's yonder, who has recounted sad stories about you
and your brother at home."

"About me, Sir Miles, as much as he pleases," cries Harry, warm with
port: "but I'll break any man's bones w