,
"Hang it, nephew! when I was thy age I should have kissed two such fine
girls as Do and Flo ere this, and my own flesh and blood too! Don't tell
me! I should, my Lady Warrington! Odds-fish! 'tis the boy blushes, and
not the girls! I think--I suppose they are used to it. He, he!"

"Papa!" cry the virgins.

"Sir Miles!" says the august mother at the same instant.

"There, there!" says papa. "A kiss won't do no harm, and won't tell no
tales: will it, nephew Harry?" I suppose, during the utterance of the
above three brief phrases, the harmless little osculatory operation has
taken place, and blushing cousin Harry has touched the damask cheek of
cousin Flora and cousin Dora.

As he goes downstairs with his uncle, mamma makes a speech to the
girls, looking, as usual, up to the ceiling, and saying, "What precious
qualities your poor dear cousin has! What shrewdness mingled with his
simplicity, and what a fine genteel manner, though upon mere worldly
elegance I set little store. What a dreadful pity to think that such a
vessel should ever be lost! We must rescue him, my loves. We must
take him away from those wicked companions, and those horrible
Castlewoods--not that I would speak ill of my neighbours. But I shall
hope, I shall pray, that he may be rescued from his evil courses!" And
again Lady Warrington eyes the cornice in a most determined manner, as
the girls wistfully look towards the door behind which their interesting
cousin has just vanished.

His uncle will go downstairs with him. He calls "God bless you, my boy!"
most affectionately: he presses Harry's hand, and repeats his valuable
benediction at the door. As it closes, the light from the hall within
having sufficiently illuminated Mr. Warrington's face and figure, two
gentlemen, who have been standing on the opposite side of the way,
advance rapidly, and one of them takes a strip of paper out of his
pocket, and putting his hand upon Mr. Warrington's shoulder, declares
him his prisoner. A hackney-coach is in attendance, and poor Harry goes
to sleep in Chancery Lane.

Oh, to think that a Virginian prince's back should be slapped by a
ragged bailiffs follower!--that Madam Esmond's son should be in a
spunging-house in Cursitor Street! I do not envy our young prodigal his
rest on that dismal night. Let us hit him now he is down, my beloved
young friends. Let us imagine the stings of remorse keeping him wakeful
on his dingy pillow; the horrid jollifications of o