are not to decide
till the end of the year."

"Oh, I know that, mama, but of course we shall decide to come back."

Mrs. Sackville looked incredulous, and smiled at his childish confidence
in his own constancy. "I see, mother, you don't believe me; but of
course, Julia and I can't wish to live away from every thing that is
amusing."

"Come, Julia, your brother has taken it upon himself to be spokesman,
but let me hear from you, what are the amusements that you so dread to
leave."

"Why, in the first place, mother, there is our dancing-school: every
time I go to take my lesson, Mr. Dubois says, 'Pauvre, Miss Julie, point
de cotillon; point de gavots in de country; ah, qu'il est sauvage--de
country.'"

"Dubois for ever!" exclaimed Edward, as Julia finished her mimicry
of her master's tone and grimace. "Oh, he is the drollest creature--and
Julia is such a mimic--the girls will have nobody to make them laugh
when she is gone."

Mrs. Sackville secretly rejoiced that Julia was to be removed, in a
great degree, from the temptation to exercise so mischievous a faculty.
She, however, did not turn the drift of the conversation to make any
remarks on it. "Console Mr. Dubois," she said, "my dear, Julia, with the
assurance, that your mother will take care that you do not lose the
benefit of his labors in the service of the graces. Your father tells
me, there is in our neighborhood a very decent musician, who does all
the fiddling for the parish. I have purchased some cotillon music, and
I hope your favorite tunes will soon resound in our new mansion."

"Oh, that will be delightful, mother, but Edward and I cannot dance a
cotillon alone."

"No, but we are not going to a desert. There are enough clever children
in the neighborhood, who will form a set with you; and now, Julia, that
I see by your brightened eye, that you think the affliction of leaving
the dancing-school will be alleviated, what is the next subject of your
regret?"

"The next, mother? what is next, Edward?"

"I do not know what you will call next, Julia, but I think the theatre
comes next."

"O! the theatre--yes, the theatre--how could I forget the theatre?"

"Well, my children, I think you can live without the theatre, as you
go but once, or at most twice in a season; a pleasure that occupies
so small a portion of your time, cannot be very important to your
happiness, or regretted very deeply."

"A small portion of time, to be sure, mother," replied