I asked him what brought him at this hour, ma'am;
but he took me mighty short wid his answer, so I give up me questions."

Never having been able during fifty years to make up his mind whether
his mistresses should be addressed as maidens or matrons, Timothy has
compromised matters by putting a "miss" and a "ma'am" into every
sentence he dedicates to them.

"Ah, an invitation from Captain Cobbett for Friday next--um--um--four to
seven--um--um. All of us invited, even Kit," says Miss Priscilla, in a
decidedly lively tone.

"Me! am I asked?" cries Kit, excitedly.

"Yes, indeed, you are specially mentioned. Very nice and attentive, I
must say, of those young men, particularly when we have not shown them
any kindness _as yet_. I thought that Mr. Ryde a very superior young
fellow, with none of the discourteous antipathy to _age_ that disfigures
the manners of the youth of the present day. Penelope, my dear, perhaps
you had better indite the answer to this. Yours is the pen of a ready
writer."

"Very well," says Miss Penelope, rising slowly--Oh! _so_ slowly! thinks
Monica--and going towards the davenport.

"Is the soldier outside, Timothy?" asks Miss Priscilla.

"Yes, miss. He said he wanted a bit of writing from ye for the captain."

"It is a long ride. Take him downstairs, Timothy, and give him some
beer, while Miss Penelope prepares a reply."

"Begging your pardon, miss, and with due respect to ye, ma'am, but he's
that stiff in his manners, an' tight in his clothes, I doubt if he'd
condescend to enter the kitchen."

"Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, with much displeasure, "you have been
having hot words with this stranger. What is it all about?"

"There's times, miss, as we all knows, when a worm will turn, and though
I'm not a worm, ma'am, no more am I a coward, an' a red coat don't cover
more flesh than a black; an' I'm an ould man, Miss Priscilla, to be
called a buffer!"

It is apparent to every one that Timothy is nearly in tears.

"A buffer?" repeats Miss Priscilla, with dignity blended with disgust:
she treats the word cautiously, as one might something noxious. "What is
a buffer?"

Nobody enlightens her: though perhaps Terence might, were he not busily
engaged trying to suppress his laughter behind a huge Japanese fan.

"Perhaps, Timothy," says Miss Priscilla, gravely, "as we all seem in
ignorance about the real meaning of this extraordinary word, you are
wrong in condemning it as an insult. It _may_