ect it," I said, "when nobody left cards but
Mr. Lawless and Peter Parsons."

"And that is the society they are to be left to?"

"But I shall not leave them," I cried. "Why should I, to please Miss
Stympson and Lord Erymanth? I shall stand by my own brothers' sons
against all the world."

"And if they be worthy, Lucy, your doing so is the best chance of their
weathering the storm. See! is not that one of them? The grand-looking
giant one, who moves like a king of men. He is Ambrose's son, is he
not? What a pity he is not the squire!"

Harold was, in effect, issuing from the toy-shop, carrying an immense
kite on his arm, like a shield, while Dora frisked round in admiration,
and a train of humbler admirers flocked in the rear.

I hurried down into the street to tell Harold of my old friend's wish
to see them, and he followed me at once, with that manner which was not
courtesy, because, without being polished, it was so much more. Dora
was much displeased, being ardent on the kite's tail, and followed with
sullen looks, while Harold had to stoop low to get into the room, and
brushed the low ceiling with his curly hair as he stood upright, Miss
Woolmer gazing up to the very top of him. I think she was rather
disappointed that he had not taken more after his father; and she told
him that he was like his uncle Lewthwayte, looking keenly to see
whether he shrunk from the comparison to a man who had died a felon's
death; but he merely answered, "So I have been told."

Then she asked for his mother, and he briefly replied that she was well
and in New Zealand. There was an attempt at noticing Dora, to which
she responded like the wild opossum that she was, and her fidgeting
carried the day. Harold only made answer to one or two more
observations, and then could not but take leave, promising on the
entreaty of the old lady, to come and see her again. I outstayed them,
being curious to hear her opinion.

"A superb being," she said, with a long breath; "there's the easy
strength of a Greek demi-god in every tread."

"He seems to me more like Thor in Nifelheim," I said, "being, no doubt,
half a Viking to begin with."

"They are all the same, as people tell us now," she said, smiling. "Any
way, he looks as if he was a waif from the heroic age. But, my dear,
did not I hear him call you Lucy?"

"They generally do."

"I would not let them. Cling to your auntship; it explains your being
with them. A grand creat