ter Marcus with all the starch
washed out of him. Got-up Marcus in the rough dry--O Gemini!" and Molly
almost shrieked with laughter. "Poor wretch! Hasn't had the heart to
powder himself since. And she told him to his face he wanted the
guineas.--Oh how jolly! Wouldn't I have given a pretty penny to see his
face! Phoebe, you're tip-top."

"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Rhoda, with something of
her old sharp manner.

"Talking about your true and constant lover, my charmer," said Molly.
"His heart was broken to bits by losing--your money; so he picked up the
pieces, and pasted them together, and offered the pretty little thing to
your cousin, as the nearest person to you. But she, O cruel creature!
instead of giving him an etiquet of admission to her heart, what does
she but come down on the wretch's corns with a blunderbuss, and crush
his poor pasted heart into dust. Really--"

"Molly, my dear!" said Betty, laughing. "Does a man's heart lie in his
corns?"

"If you wish to know, Mrs Betty Delawarr, the conclusions to which I
have come on that subject," replied Molly, in her gravest mock manner,
"they are these. Most men haven't any hearts. They have pretty little
ornaments, made of French paste, which do instead. They get smashed
about once in six months, then they are pasted up, and nobody ever knows
the difference. There isn't much, when 'tis nicely done."

"Pray, Molly, how many women have hearts?"

"Not one among 'em, present company excepted."

"Oh, Molly, Molly!" said Betty, still laughing. "I thank you, in the
name of present company," added Rhoda; but there was a glitter in her
eyes which was not mirth.

"Now, Red Gooseberries (rather sour just now), you listen to me," said
Molly. "If you have got a heart (leave that to you!) don't you let it
waste away for that piece of flummery. There's Osmund Derwent breaking
his for you, and I believe he has one. Take him--you'll never do
better; and if I tell you lies for the rest of my life, I've spoken
truth this time.--Now, Fib, aren't you going to show such distinguished
visitors into the parlour?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Phoebe; "I was listening to you."

"Madam, I thank you for the compliment," and, with a low courtesy, Molly
gave her sister a push before her into the presence of Mrs Latrobe.

"Phoebe, come here!" cried Rhoda, in a hoarse whisper, drawing her
cousin aside into one of the deep recessed windows of th